


ner mesh'la cyar'ika

by wearethewitches



Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Captivity, Clones, Developing Relationship, Domestic, F/M, Female Obi-Wan Kenobi, Fix-It, Forced Relationship, Good Parent Jango Fett, Jedi Mind Tricks (Star Wars), Jedi Temple (Star Wars), Kid Fic, Kidnapping, Mandalorian, Mandalorian Culture, Mando'a, Mindfuck, Non-Graphic Smut, One Night Stands, POV Obi-Wan Kenobi, Precognition, Public Sex, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Soft Jango, Softness, Telepathic Bond, The Force, The Freedom Trail, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Young Anakin Skywalker, but i acknowledge various bits and pieces, like imma just say this now, so just take it as it comes, sprinkled with legends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: The being – a Near-Human with reptilian eyes – gives her what looks like the sleeziest look in the galaxy.“You look nice.”“Sorry, staff are off the menu,” Obi-Wan replies diplomatically, not expecting the loud snort from the being’s neighbour – a Mando’ad she’d clocked earlier, bucket on the bar along with his blaster.-On a solo mission, Obi-Wan doesn't expect to be taken captive alongside her Mando'ad guard/one night stand, Jango Fett. Together, they have to learn to survive under the cruel reign of a vindictive mobster's son, who is particularly interested in humiliating the both of them; but when rescue comes, they'll have to deal with the fallout of their actions - and all the consequences thereafter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ner mesh'la cyar'ika : my beautiful darling

Her mission is simple, yet liberating. Anakin is among his fellow padawans at the Jedi Temple and Obi-Wan Kenobi has been sent out on her own, meant to retrieve a package from the pirate, Hondo Ohnaka. Her Jedi robes discarded for the disguise of a bar waitress, Obi-Wan works for exactly ten days in the agreed-upon meeting place, letting the tension and stress of her impromptu Master-Padawan arrangement slide away as she waits for Ohnaka to show.

It’s not that Obi-Wan resents her padawan – she can’t blame the boy for what happened. It would be unfair, but the Force only knows when Obi-Wan will get the chance to truly grieve for her Master. Qui-Gon was the closest thing she ever had to a father, though his neglect and rose-tinted perspective of the world often was detrimental to Obi-Wan, both physically and mentally. One of his last actions had been to declare he would take on Anakin as his padawan, without even Knighting her first – and still, she misses him, despite that.

“Greetings,” a patron of the bar greets her, leaning over the glass countertop in her direction. Obi-Wan pastes on a neutral smile.

“What would you like?”

The being – a Near-Human with reptilian eyes – gives her what looks like the sleeziest look in the galaxy. “ _You_ look nice.”

“Sorry, staff are off the menu,” Obi-Wan replies diplomatically, not expecting the loud snort from the being’s neighbour – a Mando’ad she’d clocked earlier, bucket on the bar along with his blaster. It’s a common-enough practice in this region of space, but it still surprised her to find people sat next to him, regardless.

The Near-Human gives the Mando’ad a contemptuous look. “What are you laughing at, buckethead? Just ‘cause you’ve got a fancy gun-”

“Calm down,” the Mando’ad interrupts, downing the rest of his beer. “You’re not going to get far in life with the ladies by being a _besom di’kut_.”

Now it’s Obi-Wan letting out a snort of amusement, drawing attention to herself again at her understanding of Mando’a. She meets eyes with the Mando’ad, sharing a moment of understanding. The Near-Human is much less polite, cursing them both out in Bocce. Obi-Wan might have ignored him any other night – she’s used to unruly patrons by now, especially at this time of day – and as security sneaks up on him, the Mando’ad seems perfectly happy to get back to his drink and flimsi, too.

But the Force darkens around her and it tells her to listen.

Obi-Wan looks at the being, who glares at her. With the Force at her back whispering warnings, she gets on her guard; at the bar, so does the Mando’ad, when he notices her posture.

“You’ll get what’s coming to you,” the being spits, a shiver running down her back. He means it – and somehow, he has the ways, too.

“Don’t come back here,” Obi-Wan says plainly, though she knows it’s no use. Security escort him away and as he disappears from sight, the Mando’ad speaks to her for the first time.

“When do you get off your shift?”

Obi-Wan glances at the nearest time-keeper. “A few hours,” she says, hesitant.

Another set of patrons call out at the other end of the bar and Obi-Wan goes to see to them, seeing her reflection in the glass-top as she serves them drinks. Her copper hair is noticeable – memorable – and her lightsaber is at her short-term let apartment, tucked away amongst her belongings. If the unruly Near-Human sends people after her, she only has hand-to-hand to defend herself with and she can’t let up her cover by being impossible to follow.

The Mando’ad watches her as she works. Eventually, when the crowd dips in number, she makes her way back over to him. He has dark hair and tan skin, his countenance refreshingly clear and his Force-presence thick with defence on her behalf.

“Would you like an escort home, after you’re done?” he asks her. Obi-Wan wipes down the bar-top beside him, nodding silently. “I usually get paid for gigs like this, but I’ll give you a discount.”

“Your rates?”

“Depends what you want from me.”

“An escort and a guard, till noon tomorrow.” Obi-Wan speaks baldly, expecting the worst.

The Mando’ad tilts his head in a slight shrug, before his posture changes. It’s meant to be inviting – perhaps even a mote seductive as he lowers his voice.

“I’d do it for free, if you were open to a night.”

Heat flares in her abdomen. She wonders what Qui-Gon would say – probably something about remembering to use protection, in some vague, pseudo-philosophical way. Jedi aren’t celibate and out of ten thousand Jedi, Obi-Wan has seen more than a few folk who had children and either gave them up to the Crèche or the Republic.

Obi-Wan considers him.

“Alright,” she says and then gets back to her shift, noting the pleased crinkles at his eyes and the little smile as he looks back to his flimsi. He sits there for the rest of the night and even though the Force still hums in warning, Obi-Wan feels a measure of reassurance that she has trained backup.

At work’s end, Obi-Wan leaves, accompanied by the Mando’ad, bucket on his head.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Fett,” he says, “Jango Fett. You?”

“They call me Ben, around here,” Obi-Wan says, hinting. If there comes a fight in the near-future, at least he might have a smidgeon of understanding that she’s not all she looks like. True to form, the Mando’ad pauses in step, before returning to keeping stride. She leads him to her apartment.

“I’ll check the perimeter,” Jango says, taking off his bucket and winking at her. “You can get undressed.”

Obi-Wan smirks, letting her hips sway slightly as she saunters towards her bedroom. Her eyes flicker to the corners lazily as she turns the lights to moderately dim, but the Force is undisturbed in her room and the apartment as a whole; only Jango is new. Discarding her clothes, she takes a brief moment in her bathroom to freshen up before exiting, only to find Jango taking off his _beskar’gam_ at the foot of her bed.

“Where did you learn Mando’a?” he asks her casually, though his eyes darken at the sight of her bare skin. “Kriff,” he mutters. “You’re even prettier without that dress on.”

“Thank-you,” Obi-Wan accepts his compliment, coming to sit on the bed behind him. He shuffles slightly to see her, even as he strips. She eyes several weapons tucked into his vambraces and waist, vibroblades and garottes alike. “I was on Mandalore during the Civil War.”

Jango freezes.

“I won’t assume anything, but know I trust in your skills to keep me safe,” she says, attempting to appease any trodden feelings. After a long moment, Jango continues to remove his clothing and he doesn’t tense when Obi-Wan assists him in removing his undershirt, nails faintly trailing down his back.

“Contraceptive?” he asks.

“I’m given a yearly shot,” Obi-Wan replies, before Jango turns to look at her properly, his eyes deliberately taking in every inch of her. She sees where his gaze pauses on lightsaber burns and blaster-bolts, on acid-splash that healed before bacta got to it and the uneven mottle of her skin from where bacta _did_ get to, for injuries she can’t and won’t explain to him. Likewise, he’s scarred, from knives and blasters alike.

There are no lightsaber burns. For that, Obi-Wan is pleased.

“We’re both scarred beauties,” he says, almost a jest. When Jango is fully unclothed, he wastes no time before he pushes her back, half-hard and swaying as his lips press against the skin of her hip. Obi-Wan brings her leg up over his shoulder and he chuckles lowly at her wetness.

“I’m waiting,” Obi-Wan teases.

“I can see that. _Mesh’la,_ ” he says, before kissing her there. He draws it out over a long period, pulling shouts and whines from her, laughing when she kicks his back with her heel. Obi-Wan grasps at her headboard, howling for him. “ _Mesh’la_ ,” he keeps saying. It means _beautiful_ in Mando’a and every murmur makes her feel wanted, for once in her life.

 _I’m beautiful_ , Obi-Wan thinks almost pitifully, unable to help tearing up slightly, her eyes stinging. No-one has ever called her beautiful in this setting – or any other, except when they were dignitaries or children of war, who looked at her for solace in between battles.

“Come for me,” he demands of her, eventually. Obi-Wan is happy to comply, shaking with the aftershocks. When Jango sits up, she scoffs, tugging him to lay beside her. She pulls at his cock with her hands, using the large measure of precum on the end of it to wet him. He shudders and groans, arms moving to twist around her, his head bowing to her breasts.

Her wrist aches after a while, but when Jango comes, the wait-time for the final act is short. He drags her across his lap, lining up his cock to her entrance. Obi-Wan shuts her eyes at the sensation of being filled and he moans loudly.

“Jango,” she says in relief.

“ _Mesh’la_ ,” replies the Mando’ad, his words inspiring her to look at him when she rolls her hips. He grabs her thighs with his hands, clasping her freckled skin and pulling sharply when she dips down. The added pressure causes her to yelp, her balance compromised. Obi-Wan dips forwards, wobbling as her hands press against his chest.

Jango chuckles roughly. “Alright there, _mesh’la?_ ”

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” Obi-Wan breathes. “Though, perhaps we could speed this up. I feel like I’m doing all the work here.”

“All the work?” Jango repeats, before he’s turning them around, pressing her into the sheets. “All the work, she says…I’ve barely gotten started, I’ll have you know.”

“Prove it,” Obi-Wan dares him.

It’s probably the most satisfying nights of her life and unfortunately, the Force seems to feel the need to address this through karmic balance. They both lie together in her bed afterwards, sweaty and sated, hearts pounding. The Force prickles, a feeling like ice-water pouring down her back. A moment later, she hears the door to her apartment slam open.

“ _Where are you, bitch?_ ” shouts the patron from earlier in the night. Jango curses, getting tangled in the sheets and Obi-Wan’s limbs as he scrambles towards his gear at the end of the bed. But before he can touch his blaster, her bedroom door opens, armed men with blasters pouring in. One shoots Jango on the arm and he yells, leaning back.

The Near-Human saunters in as Obi-Wan counts the armed men – there are eight, of varying species, all wearing the same leather coats. On their shoulders are bone fragments, matching the Near-Human, who suddenly seems less like a slimeball and more like a mobster’s son. He seethes at the sight of them.

“Did you fuck her, bastard Mando, eh?” he asks Jango, who shifts back on the bed, covering Obi-Wan’s bare body with his own. “Well, that’s not fair, is it? I wanted to fuck her.”

“Do you know who I am, boy?” Jango growls.

“You’ve been shot. Seems that your identity don’t matter much, unless I’m to sell you. I think I might,” the being says spitefully. He gestures to his guards. “Knock ‘em out, bring them to the warehouse.”

“Can’t we at least get dressed?” Obi-Wan huffs, but then the guards go for Jango, who puts up a good fight – up until, of course, they take advantage of his most obvious weakness. Jango’s eyes bug and like most humanoids, the hit to his nether regions is debilitating.

Obi-Wan doesn’t struggle when two guards come for her. She refuses to show her prowess, wishing to save it for another time – a time where she isn’t shoring up her mental shields, preparing for the worst. The Near-Human stares at her bare form with undisguised lust, though he’s more angry than anything else. Obi-Wan is aware of what may happen shortly: anything from rape to plain murder.

_The Jedi Council will realise something is wrong when I don’t comm to say I picked up the package. If I’m lucky, rescuers will be dispatched or Ohnaka might even take an interest. It’s rumoured that he’s clever; he might take the story of the abducted bartender and match it to his missing customer._

“Lights out,” her guard mutters, a nugget of cheer audible in his voice as his arm wraps around her throat. Obi-Wan can’t help but struggle, then, scared for her life. The Force screams _danger-danger-danger_ , but underneath it all there is a modicum of _hope._

The Near-Human wants her to live, for now.

 _No mission is ever simple,_ Obi-Wan thinks as her air is cut off. Soon, she’s seeing stars and then, darkness.

When she wakes, Obi-Wan’s hands are bound and she is still naked. There is a heavy weight around her neck and a chain draped across her, leading to a wall. Obi-Wan reaches up, swallowing deeply at the feeling of a collar. There’s a faint pain in her thigh. The Jedi looks down, heart dropping at the sight of a long, pink line, the feeling of something thrumming under her skin new and terrifying.

“We’re slaves,” comes Jango’s voice. It’s despondent, but the sound of him is relieving all the same.

Shivering from cold, Obi-Wan looks to where he sits against the wall opposite her. They’re in some kind of cell, an electric barrier separating them from the corridor outside. When Obi-Wan shifts her foot, she touches Jango’s leg, noting the lack of space to move left or right. The cell is five square feet, at most.

Jango has been beaten crudely and there’s a gash across his temple, along with a swelling, purple bruise. Clearly, asphyxiation was not the way he was incapacitated. Like her, he’s still naked.

“I was waiting for a delivery from the Weequay pirate, Hondo Ohnaka, on behalf of the Jedi Order,” Obi-Wan tells him. “They’ll come looking for me in less than a week.”

Jango stares at her. “Let’s survive that long first, before you get any ideas. That _besom di’kut_ is the son of the local enforcer-legion captain for the Silver Bones Syndicate. He came to brag while you were under. I got worried about you, thought they’d done damage to your brain.”

“I think you just wake up quicker when you have a concussion,” Obi-Wan disagrees, saying lightly, “and while the situation is indeed unfortunate, please remember that I had just spent the majority of my energy getting gloriously fucked.”

Jango looks at her in bewilderment, eyebrows raised, “You were sleeping? _Sleeping?_ ”

Obi-Wan shrugs. “I’m a Jedi. I’ve slept in worse conditions than this. It’s also-” she breaks off, wondering whether or not to tell him. Jango lays his legs out, seemingly deliberately pressing their bare legs together. Considering how cold she is, Obi-Wan wonders at the invitation.

“It’s also,” she repeats, continuing, “not the last time someone has tried to enslave me.”

“Me neither,” Jango reveals, voice quiet as they slip into silence. Eventually, Obi-Wan shivers from the cold a little more and moves across to the other side of the cell, the chain weighing at her neck, but reaching far enough for her to slip under his arm, her back to the wall. She curls her knees up, taking stock of the situation and waiting.

Soon, they hear footsteps. Jango murmurs to her, “Don’t think they have cameras. This is the patrol, if I’ve been counting right.” They wait a little longer, watching two guards go past. Obi-Wan nods in agreement: just a patrol.

Hours pass and they shift multiple times, attempting to keep each other a little warmer. Jango’s cock stirs once and at his waggled eyebrows, Obi-Wan snorts and elbows him. Good humour fills them both, for a little while, before the waiting game once more resumes.

The Silver Bones Syndicate takes forever to approach them. When their cell is powered down abruptly, the two get to their feet, tense but cooperative when a set of unfamiliar guards lead them out of the prison by their chains. They go down a corridor and out into what seems like the main complex of a remodelled factory, Obi-Wan memorising the route with ease and taking note of the exits at either end of one long corridor going from end to end of the building. They’re guarded, but viable exits nonetheless.

The guards take them to a small theatre, the seats packed with guests and the stage empty. In the front row is their Near-Human, who grins at the sight of them, eating holovid snacks as the guards deposit them on stage, chaining them to ruts on the floor. Uneasiness flows through her – Jango is on high alert, clearly, his fists clenched.

“Welcome to my world!” the Near-Human calls, before hollering to the others in the chairs. “We’re going to watch some live porn, boys!”

Obi-Wan’s face drains of blood as the crowd jeers and throws lewd comments at her. More than a few are fondling themselves and even as the watches, the Near-Human unzips his trousers, handling himself.

“This is what you get for denying me, bitch. Now, fuck the Mandalorian – or he can fuck you, I suppose – and make it pretty!”

“You _chaavla,_ ” Jango rages, shouting, “ _Demagolka!_ ”

The insults barely pierce the veil of shock across Obi-Wan’s mind. They’re descriptions of the most vile, she knows, words Satine was hesitant to say when she taught Obi-Wan Mando’a. One of the guards adjusts the collar around her neck, turning the chain onto her back and then fluffing up her messy, knotted mane of hair. Above them, a spotlight turns on, the rest of the theatre going dark.

“I’ll blow you up if you don’t do it, Mandalorian,” the Near-Human says, unable to contain his laughter, “or her. I’ll blow her up, too. The slave transmitters those Hutts use are great, they really are.”

Jango steps forwards, roaring, but Obi-Wan puts her hand up, pressing her arm against her chest. The crowd falls silent and Jango turns to her, expression mutinous.

“Just-” she whispers to him, feeling empty inside, adrenaline coursing through her system like hyperfuel. “Just do it. The sooner we do it, the sooner we can go.”

“I can’t get up for this,” he says, blunt and clear.

The Near-Human cackles, “We’ve got something for that! It’s a bit expensive to waste on slaves, though – I can get my men to break her in for you, if you like.” The crowd jeers again, one demanding it happen, but Jango makes an obscene gesture in their direction and shuffles closer to Obi-Wan, taking her hand in his.

“ _Mesh’la_ ,” he mutters, “I’m sorry. I failed the job.”

“They’re coming for me,” Obi-Wan whispers in return, placing her free hand on his cheek. “They’re going to come for me, even if I have to blast my Force-presence out for everyone in the galaxy to feel.”

Jango stares at her for a long moment, before he kisses her. Her eyes shut automatically and there are whoops, shouts of _finally_ , but Obi-Wan ignores them as she wraps her arms around him. He cradles her and they share this despair, the Force coalescing around them in a bubble. Obi-Wan can almost forget there’s a crowd of perverted beings watching them both, though she knows that Jango can’t – that he doesn’t have the Force like she does that lets her deny their existence.

 _We’re in this together,_ Obi-Wan thinks, before she pushes Jango down onto his knees. Her hands tremble and the men keep shouting. Her slave transmitter is a constant ache in her thigh and the collar around her neck unable to be ignored, even in the depths of passion. Performing like this is degrading, yet her trust in the Mando’ad grows with every second he touches her – every kiss, lick and supplication a promise that he will not hurt her, or let her be _broken in_.

Nothing about this situation is truly consensual, but it is not rape.

Eventually, the crowd loses interest, proclaiming they’re going to find the whores they were promised. The Near-Human even leaves, another slave dragged from the corner of the room to get fucked against a wall. Obi-Wan and Jango are left in the theatre, covered in drying sweat and release.

Jango embraces her, clinging to her. Obi-Wan burrows her head into his neck, feeling the pressure release like a valve has been opened. He trembles. Obi-Wan tries to accept that this has happened, that there is nothing to be done about it. She almost wants to try making a joke, almost wants to say _at least I have a contraceptive_. But it feels sour and inappropriate, even just thinking it.

“ _Oh_ _mesh’la, ner mesh’la verd_ ,” Jango murmurs to her. Obi-Wan hiccoughs, not expecting him to call her a warrior – not expecting to be called _my beautiful warrior._ They are three words Obi-Wan never thought of hearing in succession, let alone to describe her.

“Jango, I don’t want to do this again,” she says to him, even as those thoughts run through her head.

“I know, _mesh’la_ ,” Jango says, hands rubbing her shoulder in comfort, “but we must, _I_ must. I won’t let you be hurt by these _demagolka_.”

“I won’t allow them to hurt you, either,” Obi-Wan says to him, feeling him pause. She lifts her head. “This situation is far from ideal. It is- it is indescribable. When we get out of here, I don’t want you to disappear and think of me for the rest of your life as the woman you had to sleep with.”

Jango smiles grimly. “I’m a bounty-hunter, _jetii_. Once your Order learn my name, they’ll slap me in chains.”

“If they do, I will secede,” Obi-Wan says darkly. His grim smile turns true and that light in his eyes- Obi-Wan wants to see that more. She wants to know what makes him the type to offer a stranger protection against the filth of the world, what makes him laugh and cry – what makes this man _Jango Fett._ “I will,” she promises, hearing him chuckle, “I swear, if they try, I’ll fight them myself. I’m the first Jedi to kill a Sith in centuries – my skills with a lightsaber are astronomically good.”

Jango’s laughter cuts out. “You killed a Sith?” he asks, wonderous. “Where’s your lightsaber now?”

“In my apartment – and yes, I’m known as the Sith-Slayer amongst my peers. It’s how I earned my Knighthood,” Obi-Wan tells him. Jango listens and Obi-Wan finds herself telling him about her last missions with Qui-Gon, how they snuck through the blockade and took the Queen of Naboo to Tatooine. When she describes how Qui-Gon got the ship parts and freed Anakin, however, Jango interrupts her.

“What about his mother?”

The Jedi pauses. “He- there wasn’t enough. They didn’t accept Republic credits.”

“You mean to say you didn’t go back after and free her?” Jango asks, his good humour fading finally. For the first time, he looks at her with something like disapproval. “Finish your story,” he says, voice edged with something hard.

Obi-Wan eyes him carefully, but continues. Somewhere along the way, she forgets his hardness, grief swallowing her as she describes her master’s death hollowly. Telling him she killed the Sith Apprentice is a mere afterthought in the wake of his last words, describing how Qui-Gon had her pledge to train Anakin – her, the unknighted padawan, who had been passed over less than a week before.

“They Knighted you,” Jango observes neutrally, “because of the Sith-slaying. Not because your _Jetii'Buir_ approved.”

Obi-Wan jerks at his terminology. _Jetii_ is _Jedi_ – but _buir_ means _father._ Her eyes prick with tears and she recalls their rough beginning and Xanatos’ betrayal. Qui-Gon learned to trust her only after the incident on Bandomeer and they grew close…but were they close enough that Obi-Wan would call him her _buir?_ In Mandalorian culture, adopting siblings and parents is not only normal, but encouraged. Accepting Jango’s descriptor would cement their relationship in Obi-Wan’s mind, after a year of being drenched in Mando culture.

In the end, Obi-Wan decides not to correct him.

“Correct,” she says. “I took Anakin on as my padawan immediately. He’s my responsibility, now and I won’t fail him _or_ Qui-Gon.”

“You adopted An’ika-” Jango starts and a burst of laughter escapes Obi-Wan without her consent upon hearing the diminutive. Jango stops, lips twitching. “An’ika,” he says again.

“Oh, that is funny,” she breathes, smiling. “On Tatooine, his mother called him Ani.”

“An’ika,” Jango stresses, their foreheads colliding gently in their humour, “is yours. Your boy. I want one of those, some day.”

“They are stressful and always pestering you,” Obi-Wan advises him, “and my one is only ten. I can’t imagine what they’re like any younger.”

“ _Mesh’la_ ,” he says. “Like you.”

Briefly, his hand dips down, thumb dragging along her hip. Obi-Wan allows herself to imagine for a moment what a child between them might look like. Perhaps it would look like her, but with Jango’s hair and eyes, or his stocky figure.

“Don’t dream of what cannot be,” she whispers. Jango presses his forehead to hers, melancholy filling them both. They still sit on the theatre’s stage, waiting for guards to return. The transmitters in them both are primed, clearly – and Obi-Wan knows from Anakin that the Hutt’s designed them with distance in mind. Until they’re either deactivated or removed, neither of them can leave.

“Let’s hope that _skanah_ doesn’t get creative,” Jango eventually says, his lips coming to brush her own oh-so-gently. “Or it might not end up being stuff of dreams.”

“Let us hope,” Obi-Wan replies, before hiding her face in his neck once more – waiting for the guards to come.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, hypothermic and starving, guards transfer them back to their cell and give them a loaf of fresh bread, along with two blankets.

“We’re going to be entertainment for the next couple of days,” Jango says as they share the bread. Obi-Wan nods, devouring her portion.

“I’m going to attempt to reach Anakin. He’s powerful in the Force, as is my great-grandmaster, Yoda. He’s head of the Jedi Order,” Obi-Wan explains, before pausing, “Perhaps even my grandmaster might reply. He was said to have been in the Outer Rim, currently.”

“What do you need to do to reach them?” Jango asks, reserved but trusting.

“I’m going to go into a deep meditation,” Obi-Wan tells him cautiously, “and I will begin immediately after our conversation is finished. It may take some time for me to reach out. If my meditation is deep enough, I may glow.”

His eyebrows rise. “Glow,” he says, “as in…bioluminescence?”

“More like an aura,” Obi-Wan confides, “though it’s only happened twice before. Hopefully Anakin will be restless enough to try reaching out – I’ve had our bond closed off to him for several weeks, now.”

“Alright,” Jango says, nodding hesitantly. “Do you need anything for this meditation of yours?”

Obi-Wan goes to deny needing anything to meditate – but it occurs to her that in this place, where patrols might second-guess her continued seating placement, subtlety may be the way, here. Crawling closer to him, Obi-Wan seats herself comfortably in his lap, ignoring the hardness of his member; it’s a biological reaction he can’t control, so she doesn’t hold it against him.

“Camouflage may be a good idea,” she confers with him. Understanding dawns and Jango adjusts their positions, draping the blankets over their entwined forms. “You may move me as you will, but any sudden drops will cause me to wake – even small ones.”

“Got you, _mesh’la_ ,” he confirms, before Obi-Wan closes her eyes and slows her breathing. Her hear to his chest, Obi-Wan finds herself homing in on his heartbeat, using it as a metronome as she sinks into meditation. She’s surprised at how easy it is, considering the disastrous situation.

 _Anakin,_ she begins to whisper, opening her bond-centre. Her shields are still up, but she can feel his interest like an itch in the back of her head. Even her secondary and tertiary bonds to Master Dooku and Master Yoda pluck in interest. It is another surprise, discovering how strong the natural bonds have formed and strengthened since Qui-Gon’s death. With the missing link, Obi-Wan thought they would have weakened – but no, that is not the case.

 _Anakin, Masters Yoda, Dooku,_ she calls out, her voice getting louder and louder as she systematically lowers her shields. Yoda’s presence is a constant buzz; he is paying attention. Anakin is like a clamour of bells, though his attention is mixed. Master Dooku is alert, but his wariness is a strange, foreign feeling – it tastes like overdone food, right before burning.

Yoda’s presence wavers, but soon he is paying attention, the Force clawing its way through their bond. Obi-Wan hesitates. Yoda is her best bet and she _knows_ Anakin can hear her voice without effort. Her shields are almost non-existent at this point. She won’t have time to build them up again before the night’s ‘entertainment’, if there is any.

Her rising fear is present across her bonds. Dooku is suddenly very much _there_ , primed for any order or message. Yoda is far, far off, compared to her grandmaster – and Anakin is pulling away, presence quiet like he has turned away from her.

 _Help,_ Obi-Wan chants, raising her voice louder and louder. _Help, help, help, help, help._

A flash of confusion – Yoda. Anger, determination – Dooku. How to explain? Obi-Wan struggles to find the right answer, when their bonds only allow her to communicate feelings. Complex thoughts are an endeavour only Anakin could manage to project or hear.

The situation is desperate. Obi-Wan puts aside her embarrassment and focuses on her fear – briefly, on the pleasure. But only briefly. Even the hint she sends to her grandmaster’s is met with confusion, but her own horror is eclipsed by theirs when they register her state of affairs.

It’s a miracle Obi-Wan is managing this. Her excitement grows, along with the beat of Jango’s heart and the emotions are too confusing side by side this wild adrenaline, Obi-Wan not even realising why until she feels herself falling, the air rushing past her ears and-

“Wake up, _mesh’la_ ,” Jango says to her, Obi-Wan sprawled over his knees. She observes the situation clinically, feeling his arms steadying her back and noting the lack of electric field.

 _He induced a trust fall to wake me_ , Obi-Wan thinks, before he drags her to her feet. Dazed – feeling her grandmasters still in her mind, just on the periphery of her consciousness – she watches the guards enter, taking their chains from the wall and leading them out into the corridor. She stumbles, feeling unbalanced and out of place without her shielding. Her emotions come in large, rough bursts.

“Come on, _ner cyar’ika_ ,” Jango wraps an arm around her waist and she realises he had dragged the blankets off them both, leaving them in their cell. She’s cold – cold and terrified. It rages through her chest like a wildfire and she shudders, shaking, hearing her grandmasters crying out for her.

 _Help-help-help-help-help,_ she chants in her mind. Her shields are down. Obi-Wan is going to cry. She wants to tell Jango, but they have no privacy and the guards are silent, listening to everything Jango says. One smirks, the curl of his lip telling Obi-Wan he knows exactly what _ner cyar’ika_ means.

Why, oh _why_ would Jango call her his darling, right in front of them?

The audience is different this time, their Near-Human captor on a comm near the back of the room. At their arrival, that dastardly smirk reappears and he makes a crude gesture with his hand, before they’re brought back up on the stage. It mimics the last night, no changes at all. Still – Obi-Wan frets, breath coming fast and hard.

Her emotional control means nothing without her shields. Jango is firm against her, hand flexing. He can tell something is wrong – but Obi-Wan can’t communicate her problem without revealing that she is, in fact, a far pricier commodity that their _owner_ would believe. She remembers the feeling of a Force-collar, meant to cut the wearer off from the Force – the person who put it on her had been very up-front about the cost of Jedi slaves compared to Force-nulls.

“Breathe, _cyar’ika_ ,” Jango instructs under his breath, before the Near-Human finishes his comm-call and approaches the stage with a swagger. His hands slam down on the flooring, creating titters throughout the room.

“Hello again. Enjoying your time with me?” he asks, before ordering them. “Face the front today. Hold her up and fuck her from behind.”

“And if I say _kriff you?_ ” Jango says casually, bringing Obi-Wan’s hand to his chest. She feels his heartbeat, the metronome that led her meditation. He feels like solace – and Dooku’s fury flushes through her, so very powerful and so very _angry._

It is not the emotional control of a true Jedi and Yoda’s reaction – disappointment, fear and disbelief – proves it, but Obi-Wan can’t find herself to care. Why should she? Dooku has just come to understand what a terrible situation his grandpadawan is in – why _shouldn’t_ he be angry?

Jango kneels, guiding her in front of him. He murmurs in her ear, “Look up, _mesh’la_. I’ll take care of you, hear me? You’re the object of their fantasies, not me.”

“They want to _be_ you,” Obi-Wan says, which is unfortunately heard by their Near-Human captor.

“Definitely,” he agrees, “but you’re a good girl, aren’t you? You’ll let me use you for live porn and I don’t let my friends here put their hands on you. Have we got an agreement, Miss Ben? Which, by the way, is a terrible name. I’m going to call you something else, I think.”

“Satin!” one of his friends calls out.

“Diamond,” another intones, as if they’re a sage. Obi-Wan looks to the ceiling, head resting back on Jango’s shoulder. His arms wrap around her like a cage – protecting her from the perverted bastards seated in front of them.

“Nah,” the Near-Human says, still watching them. “I think you should start now, Mando. Don’t want my guards to break her in for you, do you?”

She feels Jango’s hand slip down between her legs and she can deal with this, being on display – but then the Near-Human climbs up on stage, coming forwards and grabbing her knees, jerking her legs apart. Obi-Wan sucks in a breath, terrified he’s going to touch her.

“We. Want. A. _Show_ ,” he hisses, eyes gleaming. Obi-Wan whimpers, chest shaking and he leaves the stage – but she cries anyway.

“Oh, _cyar’ika, ner cyar’ika,_ ” Jango whispers, pressing his head against her own, even as he touches her and circles her with his fingers. The crowd mean nothing, except they’re _seeing_ her. Obi-Wan feels humiliated and ashamed. The feelings work their way deep, sinking into her very bones – creeping across her bonds and permeating everything sacred about her lineage.

Dooku rages on, but it simmers, even if the intensity is the same. Yoda falls back – and thankfully, _Force, thank the Force_ , he draws Anakin with him. Obi-Wan thanks him profusely for sheltering her padawan so, her love for that boy boundless.

“Fuck her!” their captor shouts, cheered on by his perverted friends.

“You’re not wet enough, _cyar’ika,_ ” Jango whispers to her, frantic. Obi-Wan leans back into him, closing her eyes.

“Just do it,” she mutters. “I have no dignity left, anyway.”

“ _Mesh’la,_ ” he says, horrified, but the Near-Human threatens them again and Jango arranges himself. They’re already kneeling, but being forced to face the audience means Obi-Wan has to put her hands out on the ground for support, back perpendicular to the floor.

Jango pushes into her – and he was right, she’s barely wet and it hurts. The sharpness of it echoes through her head and the shame is a heavy cloak upon her. Yoda is practically invisible, but he is keeping Anakin away using her as a stopping point, their bond yet non-existent as a third-great grandmaster and grandpadawan. But Dooku is there every step of the way. Flickers of comfort radiate from him, like it’s only occurring to him to try and when Jango manages a slow rhythm, jerking their bodies in a slow, faux-seductive tilt, her great-grandmaster begins to send her feelings of _safety-hope-rescue_.

“I like seeing you like this,” the Near-Human says to them. He’s standing in front of the stage, where he first banged the floor. His eyes are locked on her tear-stricken face. “See, I could have dealt with rejection, but humiliation? No, not me. I’ve got _status_ , which means I’ve got to be treated with _respect_. You disrespected me. Now, I’m disrespecting you.”

One of his friends swaggers up to stand by him – Obi-Wan doesn’t look, not wanting to see their wretched face. She looks to the floor, focusing on the ache in her knees.

“Disrespect, that’s serious,” their friend says. “What’d they do? Call your mama a prostitute? If they called my mama prostitute, I might whip ‘em and bung ‘em out into space, but slavery…”

“I know it’s not your thing, but having power like this…it’s turns me on, y’know.”

“Not really.”

“Come on, Hondo.”

Obi-Wan gasps, Jango breaking rhythm for a moment before he slides against her, hard. Obi-Wan gasps again, faking pleasure, eyes opening as she tries to time it right-

And it’s him. It’s _him._

Hondo Ohnaka.

The Weequay looks at her plainly, but she feels his presence in the Force ring like a bell. He doesn’t agree with this – and he knows she’s his contact. Obi-Wan looks away.

“Fucking pirate,” Jango curses, as if he has a grievance of his own.

Hondo makes a noise of curiosity, then curses like a sailor, grabbing at the Near-Human’s jacket.

“Do you know who the kriff you’ve enslaved, you kriffing _moron?_ ” Hondo practically shouts, Jango using the disturbance to stop their activities, hauling Obi-Wan into his safe embrace again, backing off. Hondo has the Near-Human by his lapels, looking horrendously pissed off.

“The kriff, man? Let go of me! I don’t care who the kriff that is-”

“He’s the kriffing Mandalore! You know – the leader of the Mandalorians, basically their kriffing _king?_ You are such a kriffing _moron_ , Zeb, I don’t even know what the kriff to do!” Hondo exclaims, before he looks to the rest of their captor’s party. “Everyone, get out, go on the _run_ – because Zeb is dead and I mean, _dead_ , once someone figures out where the Mandalore went.”

Stunned by the turn of events, Obi-Wan looks to Jango, but her partner is blank-faced and his Force-presence is full of deep-seated rage. He remains still, even as Zeb’s friends depart slowly, then all at once, leaving Hondo with a confused Near-Human.

“Here’s the plan, Zeb,” Hondo starts, hands on either of Zeb’s shoulders. “You’re going to give me their slave transmitter devices, then you’re going to run like hell to your daddy’s base. With me so far? Good. Then, I’m going to take them out into the middle of nowhere and throw them their own devices and make a run for it myself. _Then_ , you’re going to actually learn how to identify your own damn captives, got me?”

“I- I got you?” Zeb blinks, puzzled. He looks at Obi-Wan and Jango again, his expression twisting into a familiar expression of anger. “But I think I’d rather have them dead.”

“And have the Senate on your ass? No, Zeb, think with your brain, not your dick,” Hondo flips him lightly upside the head, letting him go. Hondo glances at them, pointing. “And you two? You owe me.”

“I don’t want to let-” Zeb starts, only for a knife to tap against his jugular. He freezes.

Hondo purses his lips. “Let me be clear, Zebby-boy. I don’t want to die. You don’t want to die. Neither of us want to kriffing _die_. Now, we’re going to release the Mandalore and his new girlfriend – wife?” He glances Jango’s way and Obi-Wan can’t help but release a bubble of laughter, that turns into a sob almost immediately.

_We’re being rescued!_

“I think that’s our business, not yours,” Jango says, turning Obi-Wan into his chest so she can cry against him rather than in front of their captor and the pirate who’s turning into their saviour. Relief pours through her, a dam breaking. Dooku still feels angry – and in the distance, Anakin is breaking out of Yoda’s hold. Her padawan wiggles out of his mental grasp and practically _leaps_ in her direction.

‘ _Obi-Wan?_ ’ he starts, his voice a trill in her mind. _‘Obi-Wan, what’s going on? Where are you? What’s wrong? Why did Yoda take me into seclusion? Are you okay?_ ’

 _Anakin,_ Obi-Wan sobs, arms wrapping around Jango’s collared neck. _I’m alright, I’m going to be alright. I was captured and I have a transmitter in my leg and I’m going to be okay, I promise, I promise you._

‘ _A transmitter? A **slave** transmitter?_’ Anakin thinks to her and now, now it is _his_ turn to be angry. It rises like a wave, crashing down on her like a tsunami. Obi-Wan begins to feel the pressure of having the barest of shields, Anakin’s wrath tearing them down like tissue paper, bulldozing through her mind. Obi-Wan falls silent, her sobs cutting out abruptly as Anakin falls right into the memory of the night before.

‘ _No,_ ’ he thinks. _‘No, no, no, no, no-’_

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan croaks, not realising her legs have dropped from under her until Jango has lifted her up into his arms. Hondo is undoing their chains, saying something fast and intelligible to Obi-Wan, whose mind is being crushed under her padawans-

 _‘GET OUT!’_ comes the roar of her grandmaster, Dooku’s voice like thunder. Anakin’s focus wavers and it’s enough for Dooku to throw him from the landscape of Obi-Wan’s mind, before he himself leaves swiftly. Obi-Wan is grateful for his intervention, but she fears what Anakin saw.

“ _Mesh’la, ner cyar’ika,_ talk to me – talk to me, now,” Jango says, voice demanding. “What is happening in that head of yours?”

Obi-Wan takes a second to gather her words. “Anakin…Anakin was in my memories. I told him I was enslaved and he broke the last shield around my mind. I’m- I’m untethered. I need to rebuild my shields.”

“Is he still there?” Jango asks, furious.

“No- no, my grandmaster forced him to leave. My bonded are all outside my mind, now,” Obi-Wan says, feeling distant and lethargic. The Force swirls around her like an invisible wind. Everything hurts. “I need to get back to the Jedi Temple. Jango- Jango, you need to get me back there. They’re the only ones who can help.”

“Help with what? Dammit, _cyar’ika._ ”

“I’m-” Obi-Wan tries to find the words, knowing that a healing trance is inevitable. “I’m not going to wake up. I’ll look barely alive, but it’s a Jedi technique. You still need to get me to the Temple, in case anything goes wrong. My body reflects my mind – and don’t leave. Remember, don’t leave-”

* * *

The Force surrounds her and it feels cold, like space.

A heartbeat – her metronome.

Her padawan is close, but her grandmaster closer.

The heartbeat- Jango, his heart races like a drum.

Darkness, like Maul.

Char and comfort and _grandpadawan, we are nearly there._

The heartbeat stays with her.

The Force still feels like space, but there is an approaching hive of minds and it **_hurts_** _-_

Focus. Blankness. The Force swirls around her, but there is stagnation in the Unifying Force.

_Am I in a Force-shielded room?_

The heartbeat is gone, her metronome is gone, she _needs her metronome-_

‘ _Obi-Wan, wake up, wake up, please wakeupwakeupwakeup-_ ’

Her grandmaster is by her side, changing the feel of the Force around her.

_Oh, that’s Yoda-_

_Master Che?_

_Anakin-_

_ANAKIN!_

Obi-Wan wakes with a wheeze, automatically reaching the Force and not finding it. By her side, her padawan startles, absorbent plugs in his nose stained red. Obi-Wan’s arm reaches out wildly for him and he takes her hand.

“You’re awake- you’re really, really awake!” he exclaims, before his eyes water. “I thought I killed you!”

“No,” Obi-Wan says, mouth like cotton. _No,_ she thinks, before falling into a deeper, truer sleep than her healing trance had allowed. When she wakes again for the second time, Master Vokara Che is settled by her side, in control of her fluids and medications.

“Knight Kenobi,” she greets, “I’ve awakened you on purpose. It is vital we rebuild your shields immediately, so I might bring you into the Halls of Healing. May I join you in meditation?”

“My shields- yes,” Obi-Wan states after a pause, nodding. She closes her eyes again, feeling the wakefulness of chemicals flowing through her veins and when she slips into meditation, she finds her mind an open book.

 _Disgraceful,_ she thinks, stunned by the damage. Her mind is damaged, her thoughts, memories and emotions swept up and around as if a tornado had raged through it. She senses Vokara easily, her presence immediate with the absence of shields. _Hello._

_‘Hello, Obi-Wan. Rudimentary shields will do – the outer, middle, inner and bond walls are the only shields we shall raise at all. Do not attempt to rebuild your previous shields, for you haven’t the strength.’_

Obi-Wan feels her certainty and nods. Vokara joins her in the centre of her windswept mind and together, they build the first wall – the inner wall, meant to act as a stabilising point for the other shields. It is laborious work and Obi-Wan feels faint by the end of it.

 _‘You cannot do any more,’_ Vokara determines grimly. _‘I will return tomorrow. Let us leave your mind._ ’

The journey to reality is stark. Even a single wall makes enough difference that her thoughts are more organised. Unfortunately, the drawbacks are clear, for Obi-Wan feels the most ill she ever has, her body heavy and stiff.

Vokara fiddles with her fluids. “I’m putting you back to sleep for a few hours. You should wake on your own shortly after that. Your padawan will be insistent on seeing you, as per usual.”

An image of Anakin flashes in her mind, his nose full of white, bloodied plugs.

“He was bleeding…”

“Padawan Skywalker’s relationship with the Force is strong. He willingly gives a piece of himself away every time he accompanies you inside here,” Vokara informs her. Drowsiness overtakes her and Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter shut. “Sleep, Obi-Wan…”

Her next waking is in the company of her grandmaster. Dooku watches her with a haggard expression as she blinks and wriggles, looking in his direction.

“Master Dooku. Is that really you?”

“It is I,” he intones, voice shaking. To her surprise, Obi-Wan finds his hand encases her own. He squeezes tightly. “You scared us all, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You needed help and we were not quick enough to give it,” Dooku states, a lance of anger clear in the Force. Obi-Wan can’t help but wince, feeling Dooku reign himself at her reaction. “My apologies. The incident has left me on shaky ground. I intercepted Mr Ohnaka’s vessel and brought you here as fast as I could.”

 _Hondo._ Obi-Wan’s eyes light up as she remembers her partner in crime and his method of releasing her. “Jango-” she starts, only for Dooku to chuckle.

“You are safe, my dearest grandpadawan. The bounty hunter is secure within the Temple.”

Obi-Wan’s world narrows. “Secure? Why isn’t he here, with me? I told him not to leave- I told him to remember, I told him _not to leave-_ ”

Dooku’s alarm rises alongside Obi-Wan’s panic. She knows this is attachment, but she cannot be blamed for it. She struggles to sit up, her grandmaster forcing her to lie back down.

“Stay still, stay down – why do you care for your rapist this much?”

“He did not rape me, he did _not_ ,” Obi-Wan says, vehement. She grasps her grandmaster’s sleeve, as if she were a child. “We were captured together. Please, grandmaster, he is kind and good. His profession does not reflect his mien.”

“Grandpadawan, your own apprentice saw him in your mind,” Dooku says, but Obi-Wan shakes her head.

“He does not know what he saw. He is a child. It is more complicated than it seems. What did Jango say?”

“He has said nothing, only kept his silence,” Dooku replies. “He was not meant to be near you. He had business further into wild space. Mr Ohnaka called him the Mandalore. I have come to believe he sought revenge on my line for the events of Galidraan.”

 _Galidraan?_ Obi-Wan puzzles over that for only a moment before discarding it.

“No,” she says, keeping her grip on his robe sleeves. “Jango and I didn’t know each other when we were taken. I only told him I was a Jedi after we were chained and chipped.”

Dooku’s expression flattens. “I find that hard to believe, grandpadawan.”

“It is the truth,” Obi-Wan claims, before she slowly struggles to sit up. This time, he helps her, assisting Obi-Wan in moving her cushions and rearranging her blankets. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Fourteen days,” Dooku admits.

“And Jango has been imprisoned this entire time,” Obi-Wan states, rather than asks. She lays her best commanding expression across her face. Dooku meets her gaze passively. “I want to see him.”

“I deny such a request on the basis that you are far too ill,” he claims.

“And I,” Obi-Wan smarts, “claim he kept me safe as well as he could during the two days we were captives together. I demand to see him, so that my mind may rest easy.”

“What of your padawan?” Dooku tries to sway her, “What of him?”

“He’ll come and see me when he wants to. The Temple is his home. Jango wouldn’t be able to find a fresher if he asked.”

Grandmaster and grandpadawan duke it out in a battle of wills, faces impassive and pleading both. Eventually, Dooku stands.

“You will speak to Master Yoda of the matter,” he says, “and if he is benevolent enough to let a criminal have the run of the Jedi Temple, such will be his decision.”

“Agreed,” Obi-Wan crosses her hands over her lap, prim as she can be in a hospital bed. The Force-shielded room is bare, except for her, her bed and a single chair – she doesn’t even have a side-table. “And might I have access to the holonet? This room will become boring very quickly, most likely.”

Dooku inclines his head. “I will see what I can do,” he says, before taking his leave.

Half an hour later, Anakin arrives and Obi-Wan is horrified at his reaction to the Force-shielded room, her padawan slumping visibly, hand going to his head.

“Don’t see me,” she orders swiftly. Anakin looks up, blinking woozily. The absorbent tissues in his nose turn swiftly red. “You’re hurting yourself. I forbid you to visit me anymore.”

“…can’t stop me,” he says petulantly, before swanning over and climbing into her bed. Obi-Wan gladly wraps her arms around him, glad for his presence. “Master Dooku said you wanted to see the rapist.”

“He isn’t a rapist,” Obi-Wan says, loosening her grip. “He and I were slaves together, Anakin.”

“He had sex with you. You didn’t want it. That’s rape.” Anakin looks at her with certain eyes, his anger beginning to rise in reaction to the topic. “Why are you denying it, Master?”

“Because you don’t have the whole picture,” Obi-Wan says frostily, “and you are calling a man I’d call a friend a rapist. He is not and you will cease, Padawan.”

“But-”

“But nothing, Padawan,” Obi-Wan says, voice severe. “You know not of what you speak and worse, you have manipulated the opinions of Masters, who have imprisoned a man for crimes he committed under duress – ones I did unto him in the same manner. Would you have me locked away as he is?”

“No!” Anakin cries, for shame. He burrows his head in her chest, tiny arms wrapping around her tightly. Obi-Wan shuts her eyes, accepting that her padawan is young and particularly fragile, when it comes to the topic of slavery.

Jango’s words suddenly echo through her mind. _You mean to say you didn’t go back after and free her?_ Obi-Wan feels a deep shame, thinking of Anakin’s mother, still living as a slave on Tatooine. Obi-Wan was a slave for two days and she feels the trauma of it.

Anakin stays attached to her for several hours and Obi-Wan is content to lay back, enjoying his presence at her side when Yoda enters her room. His hunched back is prominent, along with the deep grief that emanates from him.

“Great-grandpadawan, mine,” he greets her, climbing up onto the only chair. “My apologies, most deepest do I give. A mission, simple, it was – but the events that happened, were not.”

“Thank-you, Master Yoda,” says the tired Jedi Knight. Yoda bows his head.

“Master Dooku says, claim the bounty-hunter, Jango Fett, your ally he be.”

“He was – is,” Obi-Wan corrects herself, wary of Anakin laying against her chest. He is not asleep. “There were extenuating circumstances. Threats of…well, threats of others to take his place were made. We had an arrangement.”

Yoda bobs his head, mulling over her words. Obi-Wan waits, willing to be patient if it means Jango’s release.

“A visit, you ask for. Jango Fett, visit he will – provided, answers does he give regarding his presence on the planet.”

Obi-Wan agrees – “Done,” she says in relief.

Yoda taps his gimer stick on her bed. “Shields, you should build. The mind of an unshielded Jedi, fragile, it is.”

“I’ve begun – but it is hard work,” she admits.

“Practice with your padawan, should you. Young Skywalker, strong in the Force. Build planets in place of fences, could he,” Yoda nods again, before hopping off the chair. Anakin stirs as he leaves, sitting up to face Obi-Wan.

“You could have said,” her padawan murmurs, frowning. “I know threats can be really bad, with slaves. My Mom was a pleasure-slave, before she had me.”

The Knight’s eyes widen. “She was?”

Anakin nods.

“Well- well, I-”

“She doesn’t talk about it much, but she doesn’t-” Anakin corrects himself “- _didn’t_ have to. We were slaves. We knew.”

“You…knew…” Obi-Wan murmurs, trailing off as she wonders if she’s misjudged her padawan. He dealt an insult to Jango – but he was missing the key piece of the puzzle, that they had agreed upon that course of action.

How many things has Anakin been confused over throughout his education with the Jedi that could be solved with a simple sentence, to change his perspective? Before, Obi-Wan has thought him young – naïve. Jedi Younglings are taught to think in a certain way, their minds built up with knowledge of the Force and Anakin has come in too late for that; he is a former-slave, with a slave’s mindset. Obi-Wan needs to try harder, to make sure he knows the world as a Jedi – not as he once was.

Reaching out, she brushes his bloody tissues. They’ve dried up, thankfully – but the sight still distresses her.

“We talked about you, you know, me and Jango,” Obi-Wan tells him. “He called you An’ika.”

Her padawan’s nose wrinkles. “Anikaah? That’s not my name, though.”

“It’s a Mando’a turn of phrase. To call something or someone a ‘little’ something, you add the ‘ _ika_. So, perhaps Jango would be Jan’ika. Anakin becomes An’ika.”

“And Obi-Wan…Wan’ika?” Anakin guesses, absorbing her small lesson like the polyglot he is. Obi-Wan smiles.

“You should ask him. As a Mando’ad, he would know.”

Anakin’s expression sours, an uncomfortable guilt coming off him in waves. “I know he’s your… _friend,_ but I don’t want to meet him again.”

“…did you do something?” Obi-Wan asks him, eyes narrowing. “Anakin…”

“I- I saw him coming into the Temple with you and Master Dooku,” Anakin confesses, cringing, “and- and I called him a rapist in front of everyone. I told him I saw into your head and I saw what he did and-”

“And then they arrested him, I presume?”

Anakin nods in a morose manner, his Master giving a sigh of her own.

“A profuse apology may be in order,” Obi-Wan says neutrally, “and lots of grovelling. I have no intention of letting him leave without his comm frequency saved to my pad.”

“You went through a lot together,” Anakin says, insightful and grave. Obi-Wan nods, forming a plan.

“We did. I would like you to fetch him for me, in fact.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do. You can do it right now, in fact.”

Her padawan reaches to hug her, clinging tightly for the long moment he holds her – but then he lets go and climbs off her bed.

“I’ll be back soon, with the bounty-hunter,” he grumbles, leaving the Force-shielded room. Obi-Wan feels him go, letting out a breath when the door closes. Her vision is spotty – closing her eyes gives her instant relief and she must have fallen asleep, for only when the door opens again does she have any sort of awareness.

Anakin leads Jango inside, once again stumbling and reacting negatively to the shielding. Jango seems alarmed by this, but when he moves to catch him, Anakin waves him off, eyes narrowed.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan huffs, rolling her eyes. “Be nice.”

“No,” Anakin says, the petulant tone back. At Obi-Wan’s unimpressed look, he comes over and climbs up into bed with her again, arms locked around her torso. Jango watches on with a blank face.

“Anakin, meet Jango Fett, my _friend_ ,” Obi-Wan says, digging her hand into his side. Anakin wiggles, yelping as Obi-Wan uses his lax grip to move, shuffling around to see Jango better. “Jango, this my padawan, Anakin Skywalker. If he has not apologised to you already, I am definitely kicking him out of my sickroom for the foreseeable future.”

“He apologised,” Jango says, as Anakin decries his innocence. Obi-Wan looks at him – _actually_ looks at him.

Jango is dressed, for once, wearing loose trousers and a plain white Jedi undershirt and boots. He stands at military parade rest and his expression is closed off, not at all like when they were captive together. Maybe it’s because of Anakin – but either way, Obi-Wan finds she misses it, her chest tightening at the thought of losing the man she was getting to know.

“You can come closer, you know,” she says quietly. Immediately, Jango is across the room, manoeuvring to sit on the bed, leaning against the wall with his knees over her and Anakin’s legs. Obi-Wan chuckles. “I see that was all the invitation you needed to make yourself at home.”

Jango shrugs lightly, not replying verbally. Obi-Wan enjoys the silence – they spent much of it in quiet, during their imprisonment. Impulsively, she asks him, “Did they take your transmitter out?”

“One of the only things they did,” Jango nods. “At least they got that right. What is up with you, _cyar’ika?_ Dooku said your brain was fried.”

“Something like that,” Obi-Wan hedges. “It’s complicated to explain to a non-Jedi. I’m getting better, though.”

“And-” Jango starts, before he glances at Anakin. The boy looks at him impassively.

“You can speak freely enough in front of him,” Obi-Wan says, “though nothing explicit, please.”

Jango nods slowly, then asks, “Are you okay down south?”

A red flush takes over her cheeks and her chest. Anakin snorts as Obi-Wan’s embarrassment, snickering as she nods, lips pressed together tightly. Jango’s lip twitches, before he presses on, unaware that Obi-Wan has had no time to inspect said matter.

“And your shot?”

“That, I don’t know about,” she says in a scratchy voice, a strange _want_ rushing through her, her imagination firing to create images of dark haired, freckled babies. “But I won’t assume anything’s wrong with it until Vokara deigns to mention it. Truly though, it’s only been two weeks – the recent stress on my body alone would probably make it impossible.”

“You never know – I just wanted to be sure,” Jango shrugs. “Dreams that shouldn’t be dreamt.”

“Master, you want babies?” Anakin inquires then, his tone full of disbelief. “I’m right here, you don’t need another child! Don’t have one of your _own,_ ” he says, appalled. Obi-Wan looks at him in befuddlement.

“Woah, what’s all that about?” Jango says, voice calming and somewhat soothing, but Anakin only gestures to Obi-Wan wildly.

“Her shields are terrible right now – when you asked her about her shot, her head went nuts!”

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan hisses, eyes wide as she bemoans her padawan’s lack of _tact._ “That’s enough! Dear Force, am I going to be able to keep any stray thoughts from you?”

“Not if they’re that strong, Master,” Anakin says frankly and Obi-Wan leans back, putting her hands over her face. Jango laughs lowly, reaching to take her wrist delicately.

“Nice to know you fantasise about domestic bliss, too, _jetii._ ”

“Oh, kriff you, Jango – I was the model Jedi before I met you,” she moans, for some reason allowing him to kiss the inside of her palm, watching him do it.

_Companionship brought on by an extremely stressful situation. I know I’m attached. I know that’s against the Code. I will get over it in time – but not if it’s abruptly severed. A slow release will do. Eventually, Jango and I will be good acquaintances and that will be…adequate._

“Master, you’re projecting again. Friends don’t kiss each other’s hands,” Anakin informs her. Obi-Wan has the urge to be _supremely_ sarcastic, but then Jango kisses her palm again, winking at Anakin.

“You should call her _buir_ ,” Jango suggests, which sets off alarm bells in Obi-Wan’s mind.

“No,” she says, causing him to frown. She hurries to defend herself, “I know that’s what it is, but it’s too soon – after four years of him being my padawan, that’s when he could probably get away with it. But not now, not even claiming it as stress. They’d ask how he knew that word and why I, a Jedi fluent in Mando’a, was encouraging it.”

“Your _jetii_ rules are restrictive,” Jango mutters. “You have grandparents and great grandparents – why not just call everything what it is.”

“Because it’s not always like that,” Obi-Wan says, voice gentle. “First and foremost, Master-Padawan bonds are instructive and a way to teach the younger generation our culture. When a Master is unavailable to their Padawan, they can go to their Master’s Master. It’s a system – not family the way the galaxy knows it.”

“It _sounds_ the same, though. You raise child after child,” Jango argues.

“I know – they even call it a lineage,” Obi-Wan says, “but a Master does not make a parent. My grandmaster was the farthest from a parent to Qui-Gon that he could get, even though our own relationship seems to be advancing.”

“Does _buir_ mean ‘mother’?” Anakin queries as Obi-Wan finishes.

“Mando’a is gender neutral,” Jango tells him, patient and willing to humour him – his Force signature _shines_ as he connects with Anakin. “ _Buir_ is _parent_. Your _Jetii'Buir_ loves you, so that’s what I’d call her, to you. On Mandalore, families are simpler.”

Anakin looks starstruck at the idea of calling Obi-Wan _buir_ and she hates to break his heart, but it can’t be – not now, maybe not for years, yet. She listens as her padawan asks more about Mando’a, memorising vocabulary and grammar rules – the two seem to forget she’s there, except they don’t. Anakin is constantly moving about, the conversation raising his energy levels so he can’t sit still; his hands lock into her medical gown, moving between the fabric and her long hair.

Jango, likewise, doesn’t let go of her hand. He entwines their fingers, his presence in the Force a constant that Obi-Wan finds herself leaning on.

But all things come to an end.

“It is time to return to your quarters,” Dooku levels a partially hostile stare at Jango, who raises Obi-Wan’s hand to his lips once more before dislodging himself. Anakin surprises her, climbing up onto his back like a particularly clingy limpet. Dooku watches them with derision. “Padawan Skywalker, you are expected in the Senior Initiate Creche of the Dragon Clan this evening.”

“What happened to my bunk in Bear Clan?” he asks, arms wrapping around Jango’s neck. Her Mando’ad doesn’t seem annoyed – if anything, he seems pleased.

Dooku says wryly, “Perhaps you should ask the droid that blew up under your mattress.”

“Why isn’t he in my quarters?” Obi-Wan asks, though belatedly she realises the answer to her own question. She turns sideways in her bed, watching them. “Jango should stay there with him.”

“Unacceptable.”

“It is perfectly acceptable. I trust Jango and Anakin has spent enough time with Initiates who aren’t yet padawans – it is surely unfair to them all and Anakin is too young to join the other padawans who are temporarily without their Masters,” Obi-Wan argues, catching Anakin’s eye. “Take Jango to our rooms, Anakin.”

“Yes, Master,” he nods, resting his chin on Jango’s shoulder, meeting Dooku’s gaze admirably.

“…fine. But I warn you now, this will not go down well with the other Jedi,” Dooku warns.

Obi-Wan gives him a thin smile.

“I’m sure they’ll live.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here's me accidentally realising that making Jango care about Obi-Wan & Co.'s opinion on leaving Shmi is definitely going to inspire an Attached Obi-Wan to jumpstart the Jedi's involvement in the Freedom Trail.
> 
> oops.

Vokara allows Jango to be the one to hold her up when the Force is reintroduced fully to Obi-Wan’s life, three weeks after she wakes from her healing trance. It feels like a wave, not unlike Anakin’s mind – but it is familiar and altogether _calm_ , not meant for unwilling destruction. The Force just _is_ and frankly, Obi-Wan is grateful to feel the gentle, peaceful cadence of ten thousand Jedi minds from the Temple – it feels like home.

“ _Mesh’la_ ,” Jango mutters, almost to himself as Obi-Wan blissfully droops in his arms. “You alright there, _cyar’ika?_ ”

“Perfectly well, Jango,” Obi-Wan says, serene. She can sense her old bonds of friendship from various Jedi in the Temple reach out to her, feeling her presence in the Force again. She greets them with fondness and assurance, when some deign to send her their questioning worries. “I would much like to return to my quarters, but I predict that Master Che would disagree with my decision.”

“Definitely,” Vokara says, brusque. “To the Halls of Healing – Mr Fett, if you would bring her along.”

“Yes, Healer,” Jango says obediently, hauling Obi-Wan up into a bridal carry and following Vokara away from the Force-shielded rooms to the general infirmary. Obi-Wan hums in delight upon seeing the various healers and padawans there, waving to a few and outright grinning at Mace Windu, who waits for Jango to set her down on a bed before approaching.

“Knight Kenobi,” he greets solemnly.

“Master Windu – what brings you to the Halls of Healing today?”

The Korun Master eyes her, glancing at Jango by her bedside twice. “You have been through an ordeal, Knight Kenobi, but unfortunately the Council requires a debrief. I elected to hear your testimony of events.”

Obi-Wan’s smile fades slowly. “I see,” she says. By her bed, Jango tenses and she reaches out in the Force even as her hand comes to take his own. “I’m fine,” she assures him, feeling his defensive warmth, like possession and duty.

“Does she get to have privacy, at least?” Jango asks Mace bluntly, jerking his head towards the various MedCorps personnel and Healers who would be perfectly able to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Mace twitches. “We are Jedi. Many already know some of the sorrow she has faced. Transparency in this situation is…valued.”

“This isn’t unusual, Jango,” Obi-Wan backs up the Council Member’s words, squeezing Jango’s hand tightly. She still feels weak and numb in certain places – but her shields are being rebuilt and the effect is noticeable every time she reinforces them. She is regaining her sense of _self_. “Trust me.”

“…I trust you, _mesh’la_ ,” he nods stiffly, but he doesn’t move from his position – or let go of her hand.

Mace eyes their joined limbs with trepidation. “Knight Kenobi, if you are feeling well enough, I would hear you speak, now.”

“Right, yes. Well,” Obi-Wan starts, describing her work as a bartender and skimming over the prep-work she did in advance of Ohnaka’s imminent arrival. Quickly, she gets to the night she met Jango and that is where her unease sets in.

It begins small. She tells Mace of the Force that night and her voice dips, quieting. Then she does something morally duplicitous – she lies, abstaining from informing Mace of her one-night stand with Jango, even though it was that event which caused them to get caught so easily.

Mace, astute as ever, points out, “What of your lightsaber, Knight?”

“It was hidden away in the other room,” Obi-Wan clears her throat, “and really, they were quite vicious. I’m sure you saw the horrible bruises they left of poor Jango when they knocked him out.”

“I would have thought a Mandalorian a better fighter than that,” Mace says, neutral.

Jango butts in. “You weren’t there. They didn’t bother with sneaking about after they knocked the door down. We were caught unawares, despite expecting them.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees hurriedly, “that. Jango took a blow to the head – I assume – while they choked me to unconsciousness. It was a rather appalling scene. We both woke up to slave transmitters already lodged in our skin and collars that chained us to either end of our cell.”

“So _that’s_ why your neck had so many abrasions,” Vokara mutters, joining Mace on the other side of her bed and hooking Obi-Wan up to various monitors, warm hands a comfort against her skin as Obi-Wan begins to describe the hardest part of the encounter.

“They- they left us there for the day,” she stutters, “and then- then they brought us to a home theatre and chained us to the stage.”

Jango’s hand squeezes her own. Vokara brushes her shoulder soothingly. Obi-Wan squints, looking at the lightweight blankets of her new bed. They’re…creamier, than the blankets in the Force-shielded room.

“We were forced to have sexual congress in front of an audience,” she says, almost hollowly. _I’m shaking,_ Obi-Wan notes distantly. “It was degrading. Upsetting. When it was over, we were left on the stage all night and returned to our cell next morning. We were not given clothes. At that point, I made the decision to reach across my strongest Force-bonds – my bonds of lineage.”

“Master Yoda described the experience,” Mace says, voice clipped. She can sense his anger for her in the Force, low and controlled. “Padawan Skywalker’s uncontrolled actions were the result.”

“That came later,” Obi-Wan says, that mental distance widening. She doesn’t feel like she’s in her own body.

“Dooku stayed with me, during the next night of entertainment – though unknown to us at the time, Hondo Ohnaka was attending. He cut activities short by taking control of the situation, claiming Jango as the Mandalore and scaring off the audience. It was shortly after he banished our captor from the room that- that Anakin did what he did. Master Dooku managed to banish him from my mindscape on my behalf. My healing trance followed.”

“Master Dooku confirmed as such,” Mace informs her. “It will please you to know that Master Yoda took Padawan Skywalker under his wing during your convalescence – your padawan’s shielding has improved, as has his Force-etiquette. I had not realised the…extent, of his power. You are an admirable Master to him, Knight Kenobi, in spite of this.”

The compliment sends a faint thrill down her spine, but Obi-Wan feels like she in underwater.

“She’s his _Jetii’Buir_ ,” Jango says, scoffing, “of course she is.”

“Jango,” Obi-Wan chastises softly, before she pulls him closer, not sure what she’s asking for. Comfort? More than just a hand held?

She’s lucky. Jango reads her like a book, taking her short tug as permission to climb into bed with her, pulling her against his chest. Obi-Wan cares not for the opinions of her fellows when she willingly curls into him, hand grasping his shirt oh-so tightly, as if he can hide her from the real world. Mace looks supremely uncomfortable, but Vokara, to Obi-Wan’s surprise, looks faintly approving.

“Attachments,” the Master rumbles, looking away.

“It’ll fade with time – and only time,” Vokara says on her behalf, almost telling the poor Jedi off. “Reassess their budding relationship in a year’s time.”

“Is that your recommendation as Healer, Master Che?” Mace asks neutrally.

Vokara nods sharply. “They’ve both been through trauma. I will defend Obi-Wan’s right to comfort after this ordeal – and Mr Fett’s, as well – till my last breath, in front of the entire Council itself, if I must.”

“Master Che,” Obi-Wan says, heartfelt. Vokara looks to her, eyes solemn.

“I speak the truth. You’ve been through a unique event,” she glances at Jango, inclining her head to him before a small smile sparks to life on her blue face. “Though I would warn you against any more sexual activity, dear Jedi. You metabolised your contraceptive shot during your healing trance, along with your vaccinations.”

“Got it, doc,” Jango replies for Obi-Wan, who flushes again, profusely. _Damn red hair,_ she thinks morosely, sinking back into the cushions and Jango’s side.

Vokara wags her finger. “I know Obi-Wan’s sort. Did you know that her old Master went and did the same thing, when he was a boy? Master Dooku was quite ashamed – Qui-Gon metabolised his own shot in a healing trance after a nasty incident, then went on two weeks later to impregnate that poor politician’s aide.”

“He _what?_ ” Obi-Wan’s eyes pop out of her skull. “Qui-Gon has a child?” she asks, baffled.

Vokara eyes her oddly, nodding as Mace stares at Obi-Wan like she has two heads. Jango raises an eyebrow.

“ _Cyar’ika_ , I think they know something you don’t.”

“We certainly do,” Vokara fusses with Obi-Wan’s fluid line, before she summons a Med-droid. “We’ll take blood samples now. Stay still while the droid works.”

“Do I have to?” Obi-Wan moans, stretching her arm out for the droid to poke and prod, dark red blood filling the clear glass tubes and disappearing into the droid for analysis. She disregards the topic of Qui-Gon’s child for another time – but she will get answers, eventually.

“And you, Mr Fett,” Vokara addresses the Mando’ad, who stirs at his name.

“What, now?”

“If you willingly step foot into these Halls, I am duty-bound to look at you,” she proclaims, poking him across Obi-Wan with a scanner. “You can either say no and have yourself held up every time you try to visit your Jedi refusing, or you can submit now and get it over with.”

Jango looks particularly vexed by Vokara’s brand of harassment, but he slowly nods, letting Vokara prod and poke him, asking him questions about his general health and his vaccination history. Obi-Wan listens in interest, wondering how he caught Vinvocci Fever as a child, why his parents had never taken him to hospitals or med-centres as a teenager – she wants to _know_ these things, wants to get under his skin and learn how he ticks.

Jango is a safe haven to her.

That doesn’t mean he has to remain a mystery.

At one point, Vokara manages to drag Jango off out of her bed to a private room to conduct a physical, leaving Obi-Wan in the quiet of the infirmary, Mace still standing by her bed.

“Knight Kenobi,” he eventually starts.

“Yes, Master Windu?”

Mace waits a short while before speaking again. “Is there anything about your testimony you would like to change in the absence of your compatriot?”

For a few seconds, Obi-Wan’s mind is blank – but then a crackling annoyance festers in the Force around her, straining against her shields.

“Master Windu,” she says, officious, “I would and have not lied or obfuscated in my testimony. Mr Fett was nothing but kind. Our treatment was not equal – Zeb of the Silver Bones Syndicate seemed awfully offended by me in particular, most likely because of my sex and gender – but Jango is lucky they wanted to torment him, rather than simply see him dead.”

“He did not assault you, then,” Mace infers, folding his hands inside his sleeves. He bows, but Obi-Wan sees the blackened look to his eyes; it makes her suspect something is going unsaid. “Thank-you for your words. The Jedi Order will hand over the charges against a member of our Order to the Senate. Last I heard, the Silver Bones Syndicate wasn’t a major organisation, but assault on a Jedi will bring them to court. Trust that you will not be named, nor asked to testify again. Your words will be rephrased accordingly to protect your identity.”

Obi-Wan inclines her head a degree. “Master Windu.”

“Knight Kenobi.” Mace copies her head-tilt, vacating the Halls of Healing swiftly. If there’s something Obi-Wan likes about Mace, it’s his decorum in the face of object depravity – though, he will surely meditate on his anger later, before giving her statement to the Council.

 _I should meditate,_ Obi-Wan thinks wryly, still feeling the sting of her own annoyance at the Jedi’s unwillingness to believe Jango had not assaulted her. Sitting up in her bed and getting comfortable, Obi-Wan crosses her legs and begins a weak meditation, not meaning to go very deep – certainly, when she has already bolstered her shields that morning, it would be unnecessary and frivolous. Obi-Wan still cannot take the strain of shoring up her shields more than thrice a week, even with Anakin’s help.

When Jango returns to her, she opens her eyes again, shifting to allow him to return to her side. There’s a bacta patch on his arm – the one that was shot, in her apartment. He grumbles in Mando’ad, unusually talkative as he settles in against her, arms wrapping around her sternum.

“ _I don’t like healers. They always ask many questions – my brain is empty. The healer knows all. I shouldn’t have spoken to the healer._ ”

Realising that for once it may be _Jango_ in need of comfort, Obi-Wan runs her fingers through his dark locks, projecting calmness in the Force. He presses his lips to the side of her head, so very _close_ and Obi-Wan listens to the Force. It rages around him like wind – he feels anguish and guilt the most, alongside hurt and that anger she sensed when Hondo called him the Mandalore.

“ _I’ve no armour,_ ” he says to her.

“And I’ve lost my lightsaber – undoubtedly, they’ll have been taken by now, by the Syndicate, my landlord or even Hondo. I can’t imagine our things would have been left in my apartment to rust.”

Jango grunts. “ _I’ve no armour,_ ” he says again. The words he actually says are _dar’beskar’gam_ – no iron skin, the Mando’a word for their style of armour. Obi-Wan reflects on what it means, culturally. Mandalore has become a haven of peace, under Satine’s rule, though she still fights for that right. Truly, Jango has already lost his armour – his culture is being eradicated by the woman Obi-Wan once loved more than possible for just two _friends_.

It turns her feelings for Satine upside down. Her perspective shifts. What does Jango think of New Mandalore? Does he rage at its existence? Hondo said he _was_ the Mandalore – but does that mean Obi-Wan and he were on opposite sides? Satine had headed the New Mandalorian faction, advocating peace during the Civil War, a side the Jedi took to most fastidiously.

What if Jango truly _was_ the leader of the True Mandalorians? Obi-Wan knows they fought primarily against the Death Watch, but the Jedi were the ones to defeat them in the end – they opposed Satine’s regime just as much as they did their rivals’. Maybe that was what Dooku meant when he claimed Jango was here for vengeance – maybe Jango is here as a representative of the third and last faction, come to face the Jedi for eradicating his people. Obi-Wan remembers somewhat vaguely that they were responsible for civilian deaths, antithesis to their ethics.

“You’re thinking too hard, _mesh’la_ ,” Jango says to her, his most ferocious hurts fading as he sighs. Their foreheads shift, pressing together. Obi-Wan still strokes his hair, her nails carding through the short cut. There is much she doesn’t know. “What is buzzing on in your big brain?”

“I’m thinking about an old mission I took with my Master,” Obi-Wan says, telling a half-truth. “A protective detail for a politician.”

Jango snorts, eyes half shut from laziness, rather than tiredness. “You’ve done a lot of those.”

“I have,” Obi-Wan agrees. A short silence follows, before her curiosity gets the better of her. “What did you tell Vokara?”

The Mando’ad laughs without humour, voice low. “I told her I warred against the Death Watch – that I killed six Jedi with my bare hands when we fought in the Battle of Galidraan and that when your grandmaster handed me over to the authorities, the Governor sold me into slavery.”

Obi-Wan freezes. Her hand goes still over his head and Jango reaches up, trailing her open mouth with his thumb.

“It was war. I hate the Jedi for falling for their trap. We weren’t the ones killing those people – but no-one listened. I’ve made my peace with it, though I’ll never stop being angry about it. I was the _Mand’alor_ of my people and all my people are dead.”

Obi-Wan slowly lowers her hand, her trust in him shaken. _Jedi-Killer,_ she thinks in horror. _But how? He cared for me, he knew I was a Jedi and yet we still-_

“Your name is Obi-Wan. I learnt that from your grandmaster on our way here,” Jango interrupts her thoughts. “You’re a Jedi Knight who loves her son very much – I wouldn’t take you from him, trust me in that.”

“And the others? The Jedi are my people – _my_ family,” she hisses, eyes stinging with tears. She swears, wiping her eyes and giving up on calling the Jedi anything less with him. Her heart pounds. _Anakin is my padawan, my heart-son in the eyes of the Mando’ade._ “I have cried too much of late. Will you kill my brothers and sisters as soon as you find a weapon?”

“No, unless they attack me. Though I might just knock ‘em unconscious at that point, if you’re so messed up by it,” Jango says, unrepentant. “We’re connected. I’m yours and you’re mine.”

Obi-Wan chuckles bitterly, hand coming to grasp the thin material of his shirt tightly. He looks unusual and out of place, dressed in the creams of the Jedi. He should be in blue – like his armour.

“Is that another Mando tradition? Taking those for your own, when you go through periods of trauma? Is there a phrase for _fellow captive?_ ”

“I’m yours and you’re mine,” Jango repeats, placing his hand over hers. “Even if we never see each other again, that’ll remain. Your family is my family – _ner_ _aliit,_ yours. It’s not marriage. It’s connection. Only betrayal of a certain sort could turn me against you. My honour is little, but I have it. Trust me when I say these things are true, to me.”

Unwillingly, Obi-Wan thinks of Anakin, whom Jango has been staying with and caring for throughout the past weeks. Her padawan clearly enjoys his presence and his growing fluency in Mando’a is astounding – he speaks nothing else, when they’re alone. It’s like when Anakin whispers to her in their quarters in the slave language she doesn’t speak. Anakin refused to teach her before – she wonders, morbidly, if he would teach her now.

“What sort of betrayal?” Obi-Wan asks him.

“The sort of thing that we did together, to each other,” Jango says, waiting for her reply. Obi-Wan absorbs this, thinking _Jedi-Killer, Jedi-Killer_ – but her own thoughts betray her.

_Sith-Slayer._

“We are alike,” she says to him. She cannot forgive him for killing other Jedi – even if it was war. But Obi-Wan can understand and she will, eventually. She just needs time. Her murder of Maul was the same – the Jedi and the Naboo against the Sith and the Trade Federation. Jango versus the Jedi – the Jedi versus the True Mandalorians.

Obi-Wan shifts, pressing into his neck. “I have to think about this. How did Master Che take it?”

“To be honest, Obi-Wan – I think she knew.”

* * *

Dooku is locked in a Force-shielded room.

“Why?” Obi-Wan demands to know, wanting to reach out across her lineage bonds to where he should be, but isn’t. She knows she can’t reach him – she’s tried. “Why is he in there?”

“He has let his anger take him,” Vokara says, solemn. Her hands wrap around Obi-Wan’s, pulling her away from the isolation ward. “You must let him be until he finds his truth.”

“What truth? Why lock him in?” Obi-Wan asks wildly, even though she knows in her heart what Vokara means. _He has let his anger take him._ Her grandmaster has Fallen. Now, he is locked in that room because the Jedi Order have not seen a Fallen Master-Jedi in centuries. Knights, padawans, yes – but Masters? True Jedi Masters do not _Fall_ , not like this. “Do- do I truly mean this much to him?”

“You are the last straw,” Vokara says, voice gentle. “The door will remain locked to all but Master Yoda.”

Jango greets her misery with a frown and a movement to tuck her loose copper locks behind her ear.

“Why are you so sad, _mesh’la?_ Your healer agreed that walking around would be good for you.”

“I may have had other reasons to ‘walk around’,” Obi-Wan admits cheerlessly, welcoming his arms around her. Eyes closed, Obi-Wan relishes the feeling of his hand stroking her long hair. The only one who has ever done as such, Jango’s touch is…addictive. Only Anakin has ever touched her with such freedom and lack of reluctance.

“What did you find?”

“My grandmaster…he is _dar’jetii_ ,” Obi-Wan whispers, using the words of his people. Jango’s strokes stutter, his chest heaving once. She knows that the Sith are as much the subject of Mandalorian nightmares as Jedi, but there is a different word for true Sith – one Satine had not known, as Mandalore had not been her homeworld and Mando’a not her mother-tongue, for all she was claimed the New Mandalore, leader of her people.

 _Dar’jetii_ – no longer a Jedi.

“Dooku-” Jango starts, stopping almost immediately. Obi-Wan thinks he wants to say something – something important. The Force around them hums in anticipation with low notes of very. abrupt. _change._

Obi-Wan is mystified by it. _What could Jango say to me now, that the Galaxy would be forever changed by it?_

But that change slides away along with Jango’s resolve. He shakes his head and the universe spins onwards.

“Your grandmaster will get through this. He’s like you and yours, to the bone.”

Nodding, but uneasy, Obi-Wan stays silent, thinking on her Fallen grandmaster. He is an expert on Sith histories and ancient artefacts and ways; it is not unthinkable to imagine his depth of knowledge has drawn him to the Dark, using his curiosity as avarice. That _Jango_ might be aware of something, too, is another point to add to the list. Her companion is cognisant to Dooku's Fall, somehow – knowing something she does not.

There are too many secrets.

“What do you think Mace and Vokara knew, about Qui-Gon?” Obi-Wan asks, shifting the subject to lighter ground. A half-hearted laugh escapes her. “Do you think I know them? Qui-Gon’s child?”

Jango takes her change in subject without complaint. “Maybe they thought you knew already. Maybe your son is his by blood.”

A snort escapes her. “Anakin?” she scoffs, “No – Shmi was a slave on Tatooine, not a politician’s aide.”

“She could have been,” Jango says, tense, “and not _was._ Is. Lady Skywalker _is_ a slave, _cyar’ika_. It isn’t right and you should not forget it.”

“I didn’t forget,” Obi-Wan argues, though her stomach roils. The Force is like charged around her like hard static. “I don’t have enough clout to ask for missions of that sort. It would be declined, anyway. I’m too close to Anakin – it would be seen as attachment. Biased.”

“If it’s right, how can it be biased?”

“It can be both – and the Jedi would class the wellbeing of their own over one woman in the Outer Rim.” Obi-Wan explains, though it hurts her to say so. It makes her feel as if she is telling Jango secrets of the Jedi, showing him their worst before he has even seen their simple best. She gathers her thoughts quickly, wanting to impress him. “But I could ask someone else to go on a Search, there. They are the sort to have ‘accidentally’ freed slaves along the way.”

Jango’s expression lightens, where before there were frown-lines. He is happy at her deviousness.

“What’s a Search?” he asks her.

“A Search for Force-sensitives, who might join the Temple as Younglings,” Obi-Wan describes, “and I very much doubt that the slaves on Tatooine would relish keeping their own children in slavery, if they had a reason to be taken.”

“And the Hutts?”

Obi-Wan adopts a regal expression, tone faux-scandalised, “Why, Mr Fett, slavery is _illegal_ in the Republic. The Jedi would only be freeing the oppressed.”

Jango chuckles. “This is why you are _ner mesh’la_. Clever as well as pretty.”

Obi-Wan suppresses her own grin, flipping her hair back. “Indeed,” she intones, before pressing a hand to his cheek. “You are quite the specimen yourself, Mr Fett.”

“Jedi Kenobi,” Jango’s eyes are alight with glee, “are you coming onto little old me? I’m innocent as a pooka pup, how dare you!”

Obi-Wan scoffs, leaning to kiss his forehead. It’s not hard, when she has an inch on him – especially since she was given shoes. “Mr Fett, if you are innocent, then I am a prostitute.”

“Got it,” Jango replies humorously. “So, who’s this Jedi you want Searching the Outer Rim?”

“My best friend – his name is Quinlan Vos.”


	4. Chapter 4

When Obi-Wan had been brought to the Jedi Temple as a young baby, she became one of the Crèchelings, much like any other taken by the Jedi Order. Of the planet Stewjoni, Obi-Wan had no need to wear a rebreather or have any sort of additional help surviving in a Human-centric atmosphere. It wouldn’t be until her induction to Clan Bergruufta as a Youngling, aged four, that Obi-Wan would become acutely aware of the differences between certain Human and Near-Human physiologies.

Quinlan Vos, a Kiffar, is a dark-skinned Near-Human with a golden line of pigment across his face. Traditions among the Kiffar dictate that as one grows and completes special tasks, the natural tattoos are extended manually across their bodies and later, Obi-Wan would have the honour of witnessing the session when Quinlan gained his Knight tattoos – a rarity among the Kiffar and hidden from sight thereafter, for when Quinlan went undercover.

When Obi-Wan and Quinlan first met in the quarters of Clan Bergruufta, Quinlan still used an external translator that attached to his throat, lighting up whenever he spoke. It bothered the young Kiffar more than he anticipated, who had belonged to a crèche dedicated to Younglings with similar vocal ranges and auditory needs. When given his vocal enhancer, Quinlan had become sullen and withdrawn, a complete turnaround from the vivacious, energetic Youngling the Jedi were used to.

Obi-Wan saw them as friends – quite vividly, in fact. As a Youngling, Obi-Wan had rejoiced over the happier of her clairvoyant Force-dreams, which many times had included a smiling and laughing Quinlan Vos, who knew all her secrets and all her fears. She became determined to be his friend, learning universal hand-sign – a skill taught to Quinlan’s old crèche, in the case that they didn’t wish to have enhancers – and following him whenever he ran away to be on his own.

Quinlan had been astounded at her determination and within a year, they were the closest bonded among their Clan, Quinlan’s happy disposition returning – but never quite recovering, despite their friendship.

So, when Quinlan returns from his latest mission, having heard the rumours that have cropped up after Obi-Wan’s stint in the Halls of Healing, the first thing he does is rush to her side.

“You stupid, self-sacrificial idiot of a Jedi,” he curses her, arms locked around her in an almost too-strong grasp. Obi-Wan doesn’t really care, hugging him back. “I’ve heard the gossip and Bant sent me a rundown of the report-”

“Ignore it. I’m fine,” Obi-Wan cuts him off, relishing in his Force-presence. Their bond is wide open, a torrent of love and caring pouring through each of them. In the periphery of their bond, she can feel her fellow crèchelings and Clan-mates perking up – some distancing themselves in line with more rigid Jedi customs and others reaching out, yearning to join the open link.

“Ugh, I can feel Nako’s mind,” Quinlan mutters into her ear, his presence expanding and deflating rapidly in his mixed emotional state. “You’re going to be glomped by _everyone_.”

“I’d better get a bigger bed,” Obi-Wan jokes, before Quinlan squeezes once more and finally lets go, taking her hands instead. She can feel him trying to reach out with his psychometry and she shakes off his grip, eyes flashing with warning. “Quin.”

“You’re never going to tell me. I might as well See it,” he argues.

“I’m not making you See that,” Obi-Wan shakes her head, “and your total disregard for my privacy is noted. Don’t use your gift like that, Quinlan, not without my permission.”

“Gift?” Jango asks, piping up from the corner. Two heads swivel around to look at him, but only Quinlan keeps his gaze on him, Obi-Wan looking back to her friend in the wake of the interruption.

“You’re the _Mand’alor_ ,” Quinlan notes, his Mando’a inflection clear as he observes Jango. “Last I heard, you were taking less contracts that usual. Why is that?”

“My business is not yours to question,” Jango says, narrowing his eyes. Obi-Wan frowns at the clear defensiveness. “You’re the Jedi Obi-Wan said could help.”

Quinlan’s eyebrow rises, his judging expression clearing in the face of his curiosity. “Oh?” he starts.

“Tatooine,” Obi-Wan cuts in, “Have you ever visited?”

“Visited? My dear Obi-Wan – I was there when you and Master Qui-Gon last touched down with the Queen of Naboo,” Quinlan says, voice saddening.

“What?” she exclaims, jaw dropping.

“An undercover mission,” he explains, fingers tapping a four-four beat on his knees, “one I would have broken cover from had I known the true desperation of your situation. I watched your Skywalker when he raced – do you know he’s the first ever Human to have ever won the Boonta Eve Classic, my friend? I bet on him. He won me many, _many_ credits.”

The far-from-subtle brag causes Obi-Wan to roll her eyes. “Fine,” she says, “so you’ve been. Did you happen to notice that we never freed his mother?”

Quinlan pauses, looking around the Halls of Healing. He lowers his voice, his enhancer long gone – but the operation to improve his range long passed, too. “Are we really having this conversation _here_ , my friend?”

“It’s a bigger conversation than that, one you might need more than one hand with,” Obi-Wan says, before dragging him to her bed in the Halls. Vokara has promised she can return to her quarters within the week, so long as she has another Jedi – or a certain padawan – to join her in shoring up her shields and Obi-Wan is looking forwards to it.

Sitting down on top of the covers cross-legged, Obi-Wan watches Quinlan seat himself opposite her, adjusting his dusty robes as Jango leans carefully against the nearby wall.

“Are you campaigning for the Jedi to join the Freedom Trail, Obi?”

 _The Freedom Trail,_ Obi-Wan thinks, remembering Anakin’s short starts and stops whenever he brought it up. She’d dragged the definition out of him, once and her short reply that they can’t help the slaves any more than Qui-Gon could had turned the conversation into a flat no-zone. Neither had spoken of it since.

The Freedom Trail: the route and organisation slaves take and run, to free themselves and their fellows. A slow and ultimately pointless venture, when the Hutts have too much power and will just replace any lost slaves ten times over.

“I was rather thinking we might just smash the current slave holdings and be done with it,” Obi-Wan says lightly, “as slavery is illegal in the Republic, after all.”

“The Senate wouldn’t allow it,” Quinlan says, clearly playing Sith’s advocate.

“But my dear,” Obi-Wan adopts a pious expression, “we must free our Younglings, if they wish to join the Crèche as future Jedi.”

Quinlan’s eyes widen, before he lets out a loud, long laugh.

“I am the current expert on Tatooine,” he says, joyful, already moving to stand. “Your late Master proved that powerful Force-users might be found among the downtrodden. I shall advocate for a Great Searching. Too long has it been since the Jedi truly scoured the Outer Rim – and if the slave trade itself makes ten times amount of credits for Force-sensitive slaves, then there are obviously Force-sensitives to be found.”

Obi-Wan nods. “Obviously.”

Quinlan grins, leaning to kiss her cheek. “Sister-dear.”

“Brother-mine,” she replies, watching him bound out of the Halls of Healing with enthusiasm ringing through the Force, affecting the many padawans, MedCorps members and Jedi roaming the halls. She sees it in the small smiles and the spring to their steps – the sudden laughs and the general uprising of happiness.

Quinlan always was an agent of chaos.

“He’s not like the others,” Jango notes in a rumble. Even he seems calmer, though Obi-Wan knows his Force-null state won’t tell him _why_. “He’s…personable.”

“Everyone has character,” she admonishes him carefully, “Quin just knows his limits. The other Jedi daren’t even _try_.”

“What about you?” he asks, but Obi-Wan thinks he knows enough of her.

“What about _you?_ ” she turns the question on him. “What code do you follow? What are your morals – your limits?”

The Mando’ad stares at her for a long moment, before he seats himself down on his visitors chair, leaning on his arms.

“I don’t deal in kids or slave trade. I’ll kill without thinking much of it,” he says in a plain voice, as if listing a shopping list. “I’m a bounty-hunter and sometimes, delivering folk to people is a job I’ll take. What they do to them after isn’t my concern. I’ve been an assassin before.”

“Do you go through the Bounty-Hunter’s Guild?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Not always.”

“…how does one even take on jobs, without a notice-board?”

“Word of mouth,” Jango shrugs, idly adjusting his cuff. “If you’re infamous like me, you can get away going places no-one except others of a similar reputation would. The lowly bar we met, that was me taking a risk going somewhere _nice_. Your boss might not have taken issue with Ohnaka being there, but if they’d recognised me, I might have had the local mob or even the official police on my back. I only stayed so long for you.”

“I see,” Obi-Wan says levelly, a quiet falling for a short time, before she asks, “What’s your favourite thing to do?”

Jango’s eyebrow rises. “My job,” he says.

“I meant a hobby,” she chastises. “I quite enjoy a spot of sabacc, occasionally. Taking walks through the Room of a Thousand Fountains can be enjoyable, too.”

Her Mando’ad snorts. “Walking,” he said, as if it’s humorous – but he sounds more wistful than anything, the more he speaks. “I went to this planet once. Can’t remember what it’s called – somewhere near Umbara – and it was filled with all these trees that grew yellow flowers. They chimed when the sun went down and they lost the radiation they stored. Not very clever evolution, but beautiful all the same.”

“Cathira flowers,” Obi-Wan recognises. “We have those, here, if you’d like to see them again.”

Jango shifts, before hesitantly saying, “I’d like that.”

Nodding, Obi-Wan gets to her feet, making sure her shoes are on correctly. “Follow me.”

“ _Now?_ ” Jango balks, “But you’re not supposed to leave.”

“I’ll come back,” Obi-Wan waves him off, motioning to follow her as she makes her way to the exit. Vokara is there at a desk, making some kind of report and she looks up at Obi-Wan’s presence.

“Knight Kenobi, get back to bed this instance.”

“I’ll be back after sunset,” Obi-Wan stops, motioning to Jango – who has caught up with her easily. “Jango will make sure I do, won’t you?”

“I- yes, I will,” Jango replies.

Vokara narrows her eyes, standing up and turning around to go into the room behind her. She disappears briefly, returning just as Obi-Wan makes to leave again.

“Put this on, at least,” Vokara passes over a dressing gown, which Obi-Wan takes with belated embarrassment at her state of dress. She might have shoes, now – but she’s still only in a dressing gown. Vokara points at Jango. “When she starts to fatigue, don’t forget to drag her over your shoulder on the way back.”

“I won’t fatigue!” Obi-Wan denies. “I’m _fine_.”

“ _That_ ,” Vokara jerks her hand to Obi-Wan, “is why I’m telling you to drag her back. If she manages the trip to the Fountains without needing to rest afterwards, I’ll let her leave this infirmary myself. As it is, her shields are thin and this is peak time, as it were, for Jedi to meditate and socialise there. Carry her back.”

“Yes, Healer,” Jango nods, before helping Obi-Wan put on her dressing gown. It’s jarring – why is he helping her? _Satine never let me help her,_ Obi-Wan thinks, arms sliding into place. The sensation is so… _intimate_ , watching Jango tie it under her arm. She stares at him as he steps back, face blank but his presence flaring with embarrassment.

“Why are you self-conscious about that?” she blurts out, watching his composure break. He looks anywhere but her, blinking rapidly as Vokara looks determinedly at her flimsi.

“Not self-conscious. Your brain is hurt. Now, where’s this Room of a Hundred Fountains?”

“Thousand Fountains,” Obi-Wan corrects, before she takes his elbow and lightly drags him out of the Halls of Healing. Exiting totally, Obi-Wan at first shivers, the difference in temperature clear. “This way,” she says, before leading Jango north.

The walk to the Room of Thousand Fountains is long and Obi-Wan lags, breath catching before they’ve even traversed two floors. Jango is silent in his worry, his arm twisting to wrap around the small of her back to support her. Obi-Wan sinks into his warmth.

Her bonds more open than usual due to her visit from Quinlan, she feels many of her bondmates, some heading her way. Gently, she projects to them – and the rest, regardless of bond-strength – the feeling of the Fountains, trusting them to find her if they wished to. Affirmative replies make her even more determined to reach her destination and she pushes on – only stopping when Jango forces her to slow.

“Healer Che was right,” he says.

Obi-Wan huffs. “I’m _fine,_ ” she replies, clearly lying. She reaches out to Anakin, but finds him in the middle of building his shields with Yoda. She withdraws, belatedly praising him for his skill when he pauses at her reaching out. _Concentrate on your shields,_ she instructs.

_‘But you’re out of the Halls of Healing.’_

_Only for a little while. Visit me at noon-meal, tomorrow,_ Obi-Wan says. _Jango will tell you about our day when you return to our quarters._

 _‘Okay,’_ Anakin says, before fully retreating. Obi-Wan hums out loud, smiling slightly.

“An’ika?” Jango queries.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan nods, content. She still struggles to reach to Room of Thousand Fountains, stopping for breath more than once – feeling disgruntled at Vokara’s estimate as she does – but eventually, they enter and Jango’s wonderment makes it all worth it.

Waterfalls, trees, grassy hills, flowers, bushes and even a lake – when one is unaware of the Jedi’s state as an independent nation within Coruscant, it can be unimaginable. Above, high in boughs of tall trees and long, swaying vines are catwalks used for the gardeners, the weather system and budding antique astronomers. Seeing the Room always makes Obi-Wan smile and the feeling in the Force is even better, humming with the minds of hundreds of Jedi.

By the lake, she can see twelve Initiate Clans working in tandem to sculpt the water and succeeding, if the two battling water-dragons are anything to judge by. A grouping of Jedi Knights meditate barely fifty feet away from them, which is probably an attempt to prove they can meditate even with the shouts and laughter of the Initiates. From the _loud_ conversations of a neighbouring circle of lounging Knights, it might even be a challenge.

Through the Force, Obi-Wan can feel the more individual Jedi and other groups – pairs and trios of Jedi, Knights, Masters and Padawans alike. Anakin is here with Yoda in a secluded spot, far off and not quite in the physical range for her, at least, to sense in any true distinction. The only reason she knows they’re there is because Anakin will always be lit up like a beacon to her when they’re in the same system; his power is great.

“This is…” Jango says, speechless.

“This way,” Obi-Wan takes his hand off her back, holding it in her own as she leads him past the grassy plain. They move past a maze – in which a group of padawans whose Masters are absent play hide and seek in the Force – and then through the vegetable gardens, where Master Tera Sinube is digging into what Obi-Wan knows to be his shared plot with Master Ki-Adi-Mundi.

“Master Sinube,” Obi-Wan greets as they pass him, slowing to a stop as the Cosnian jerks up, beaming at her.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi! Are you released from the Halls of Healing, then?” he asks, eager.

“Not quite – but nearly,” Obi-Wan replies happily. “What are you and Master Ki-Adi-Mundi working on, now?”

Master Sinube’s smile disappears. “ _I_ ,” he starts strongly, “am working to move the most water-absorbent plants _away_ from each other, so they don’t destroy each other and the rest of the bed! Mundi says we just have to water the patch triply as much, but no – no, no, _no_ ,” Sinube shakes his head, unable to continue.

Obi-Wan, amused at their antics, chuckles. “I’m sure the matter will resolve itself.”

“It will – with the plants _away_ from each other,” Sinube nods to himself, getting back to his gardening with a mutter of, “He won’t be able to move them again for over a _year_ …”

Moving away from the Master, Obi-Wan looks to Jango, who is shaking his head in amazement.

“You have old men obsessed with vegetables.”

“We do. Masters Sinube and Ki-Adi-Mundi were ordered to learn how to cooperate by sharing a gardening plot by Master Yoda, when they started insulting each other’s produce in an actual Council Meeting,” Obi-Wan describes the situation, smiling as Jango listens – fascination obvious. Obi-Wan is invigorated. “The flowers are this way – we have a garden dedicated to different sorts, all in circular bubbles so they have the right conditions to live in…”

Babbling about the various parts of the Jedi gardens, they pass a waterfall and the entrance to the large carbon-based biome, that uses transparisteel rather than glass to enclose the area, shimmering under the large glass dome roof.

“We have insects and small insectivores, like birds – they’re unique to this room,” Obi-Wan says, when she catches Jango eying one colourful yellow avian, a young male if she’s correct.

“Must be a pain trying to get those protected under Jedi laws.”

“We have more than just the special laws for the Jedi to protect us. One of which is an endangered animal law for the sector, another being that we take in Younglings of other species – both prolific and endangered themselves. Being given guardianship of another being gives as status as caregivers – though it _is_ written in a way that goes against our Code.”

Obi-Wan pauses, before adding, “We bend our own laws though, at times. Master Ki-Adi-Mundi actually has several wives and many children of his own, which is usually banned for Jedi.”

“What species are you?” Jango asks her, curious.

“Stewjoni,” she says, in a purposefully neutral tone. “My species are far from endangered. It’s a rarity for our people to have a single child, though I’m sure many do with others that have the gene. Personally, I’m quite glad I left – having half a dozen children at a time would be a nightmare, in my mind.”

“Just the one or two, for you,” Jango prods in amusement, Obi-Wan rolling her eyes at the oblique reference to Anakin.

“If I have any more padawans of my own, it will be too soon. I have at least until Anakin is twenty – eleven years of my life, Jango, _eleven_. Stars, imagine me with an infant! I’d give them to the Crèche as soon as I could.”

“What’s that?”

Obi-Wan shrugs, gripping his hand tighter as they approach a small forested section. “The flowers are just past here,” she says, trying to avoid the question. She feels unusually protective of the Crèchelings and the Younglings, too, by default.

“Obi-Wan?” Jango says her name, “What’s a crèche?”

“You aren’t a Jedi, Jango,” Obi-Wan says, feeling on edge. “And you’ve said yourself – you’re a bounty-hunter. I don’t want to tell you how we raise our children.”

“Wait a moment,” he snaps, pulling her to a stop. Obi-Wan turns to face him, blank-faced at his anger. It sparks in the Force like a rising inferno. “I told that I don’t deal in _ade,_ as well. Retrieving sick bastards for justice and men who haven’t paid their debts are different.”

“And?” Obi-Wan asks, eyes flashing. “You still aren’t a Jedi. You’ve seen much of the Jedi Temple already and know more than the average citizen of the Republic just by living here, this past month. You have your own cultural secrets and we have ours. The raising of our children is one of them, for their own protection.”

“I just wanted to know what a fucking _crèche_ was, Obi-Wan,” Jango snaps again, irritated but less angry. He sees the sense in her words, _clearly._ Squeezing his hand in a more vicious manner than comforting, Obi-Wan leads him through the wooded area to the flower section. He is silent throughout and Obi-Wan has to focus on obscuring his anger from the other Jedi who are meditating; no-one wants to feel that, not here.

Before they leave the forest, Obi-Wan says to him quietly. “I apologise for my words, but they valid and need to be said. However, I must ask you to be more at peace with them, for your emotions are… _loud_ , especially here.”

“Why are they loud here, especially?” he asks, already calming somewhat. Obi-Wan lets up her admittedly weak barrier around him, breathing in deeply. Her head hurts from expanding her shields like that. “Obi-Wan,” Jango frowns, noticing, “what’s wrong?”

“The Room of a Thousand Fountains is vast and a peaceful, serene place in the Force,” Obi-Wan tells him, “and I was hiding the worst of your emotions from those who are open to that. It takes effort. Plus, Vokara was right – it’s a lot to handle for my shields, at present. There are hundreds of people here.”

“Should we go back?” he asks.

Obi-Wan smiles at him, feeling the last of his anger recede. “We’ve come this far – why go?” Willingly, she leads him out of the forest and into the paved, grassy area with its circular plots of flowers. It’s multicoloured and rainbow-like – some even with rainbow gradients themselves. Peering into the large, flat area, Obi-Wan eventually spies the yellow cathira flowers Jango had described and points them out.

“There they are,” she says, before Jango steps forwards, leading _her_. Soon, they stand in front of them, reading the holographic description of their habits, planet of origin, chemical composition and other miscellaneous information. “Are they everything you remember?”

“Well, they aren’t singing, yet,” he confirms, only mildly disappointed.

“Come on,” Obi-Wan sits down on the path, crossing her legs and rearranging her hospital gown and dressing gown so her front is hidden. _Hidden from what? The plants?_ Obi-Wan can’t help but think to herself sarcastically, glancing at Jango as he sits quietly, eyes glued to the sun-yellow blooms.

“It’s quiet,” he says.

The Jedi nods. “It’s peaceful.”

“Music and peace can coexist,” replies the Mando’ad. A few minutes pass before he proves himself right, humming the low bars of a song. Obi-Wan peers at him curiously, but eventually looks to the chrono on the display: half an hour till sunset and the Room’s own artificial sunset, where the dome closes in accordance to the guidelines set up by the AgriCorps, to better accommodate the wildlife.

Then, Jango starts to sing a song of war.

 _“Taung sa rang broka Mando’ade ka’rta._  
Dha Werda Verda a’den tratu,  
Manda’yaim kandosii adu.  
Duum motir ca’tra nau tracinya.  
Gra'tua cuun hett su dralshy’a.

 _Kom’rk tsad droten troch nyn ures adenn._  
Dha Werda Verda a’den tratu,  
Manda’yaim kandosii adu.  
Duum motir ca’tra nau tracinya.  
Gra’tua cuun hett su dralshy’a.”

When he finishes, Obi-Wan goes to speak, only for a short smatter of applause to ring out from afar. Jango and Obi-Wan both jerk to look at them and it is only Obi-Wan’s quick arm to Jango’s shoulder that stops him from standing, instincts alive.

“I had wondered when you were coming to see me,” Obi-Wan says, raising an eyebrow. “Bant. Garen. Siri.”

Her friends approach, coming to sit beside her. Siri sits by Jango, clearly surprising him as the Human reaches to embrace her, followed by Bant and Garen.

“We heard. How awful – for both of you,” Bant says, the Mon Calamari motions to Jango, who nods stiffly. “They’ve already brought it up in the Senate, according to Gusta – do you remember Gusta? My Todilliac friend who went to work in Administrative Services in the Senate building.”

“Todilliac…not the lovely lady with the green hair! And our case has already been brought up?” Obi-Wan leans slightly, her fellow Knight bowing her head swiftly in a nod. “Dear stars, that was quick.”

“Apparently, when Jedi aren’t strong enough to fight one measly crimelord’s son,” Siri rolls her eyes, resettling her robes around herself, “the Senate get worried. There’s even been talk on the holonet of giving us back our pre-Ruusan Reformation powers. Bah, as if _I’d_ want to deal with all the paperwork that comes with being militarised.”

“Couldn’t you imagine it, though? We’d have our own starfighters, our own navy – we’ve been talking about this for three days,” Garen informs Obi-Wan, who scoffs.

“And you left me out? How dare you?”

“Master Che said you’d be out soon. We planned to ambush you with alcohol and a willing ear,” Siri drawls. “The Quartermaster has been complaining about your little Mandalorian, here, so we thought he could babysit your padawan.”

Jango raises an eyebrow, “And here I thought I would be invited.”

“If I’m getting drunk, so are you,” Obi-Wan assures him, narrowing her eyes at Siri, “and Anakin can stay in the padawan’s dorms, if you’re taking over my quarters. He’s from the Outer Rim. Drunken shenanigans aren’t unfamiliar to him, most likely. So long as he’s safe in the Temple – and _I’m_ safe in the Temple – he’d be fine with it.”

“He’s ten, how mature were we at ten?” Garen asks, before Bant pushes at his shoulder.

“More mature than you, _Padawan Muln._ ”

“Stop rubbing it in, Bant,” Garen grumbles as they laugh, Jango clearing his throat at the end of their chuckles.

“So, who are you all, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“We’re Obi-Wan’s friend-group,” Bant says, “though I heard you’ve already met our missing member.”

“Quinlan’s already bugged the Council into meeting him later, I heard,” Garen says. “I don’t know how expects to get what he wants when they’ve not had their evening meal yet, but anyway – I’m Padawan Garen Muln, hopefully soon to be Knight Muln. This red-faced squid is Bant Eerin, annoyance of my life-”

“Call me that again and I’ll cut your braid off myself,” Bant jokes.

“-and Siri Tachi,” Garen waves his hand at Siri with a flourish, the woman nodding cordially to Jango.

“Jango Fett,” he replies. “Bounty-hunter.”

“And here we thought you were the _Mand’alor be te Haat Mando’ade_ ,” Siri says, “ _Jetiise’Kyramud_.”

Jango’s eyes flash. “First, you’re saying it wrong, as a title. It’s _Jetii’Kyramud_. The pluralisation is only used in conversation. Obi-Wan would be _Dar’Jetii’Kyramud,_ even if she killed two Sith.”

“Stop,” Obi-Wan interrupts, but Jango keeps going.

“I already told Obi-Wan that I wouldn’t hurt anyone here, unless they attacked me. It was war, war brought to my doorstep by the Jedi on behalf the Death Watch. You didn’t check your facts. You didn’t bother to even investigate what they claimed happen. If you had done your jobs _right_ , I wouldn’t be _Jetii’Kyramud._ So, shut your mouth and keep the words _Haat Mando’ade_ out of you _di’kut_ mouth.”

An uneasy silence falls between the group, Obi-Wan frozen as she doesn’t know whom to side with – Siri, one of her best friends, or Jango, who has every right to defend himself. Thankfully, Bant puts a hand out to Siri, disapproval ringing through the Force. Siri dips her head low.

“My apologies, Mr Fett. I should not have spoken.”

“History is written by the victors,” Garen murmurs, in addition to Siri’s apology. Tense, Jango nods sharply, before he moves closer to Obi-Wan. She automatically settles against him, not realising what she’s doing until she sees the expressions dotted across the faces of her friends. Her cheeks burn.

“Are you sleeping together?” Bant asks, surprised.

“ _Bant!_ ” Garen hisses, cheeks red. “You can’t just _ask_ them that!”

“Oh stars,” Obi-Wan hides her face in Jango’s shirt, squeezing her eyes shut like her friends will just disappear. “Are we really doing this?”

“You criticise every partner of mine!” the Mon Calamari points out, eager, “Now it’s our turn! With the most obvious allegations out of the way, now we ask him what his long-term intentions are!”

“Yes, because Jedi don’t _have_ long-term intentions,” Siri points out, looking at Jango as if this is supposed to be news to him. Obi-Wan peeks at him.

Jango is smiling. However, his Force-presence is steadfast, a rock to her in her mental turmoil, a crutch on which Obi-Wan is leaning too heavily. This close – this open and vulnerable to the Force – and Obi-Wan can’t help but be swept up in an unexpected vision.

_So many faces. Jango, young and old, across dozens of men in a single room – a cantina. There sits Obi-Wan with an elderly woman with her own red hair, their freckles in all the same places and on her lap is a boy with Jango’s face again, whom Obi-Wan leans to kiss on the forehead, whispering, “Jast’ika, ner mesh’la’ad.”_

_Her focus moves. Jango – a Jango, the Jango? – is dancing around the room with a young Togruta girl with a turquoise padawan’s bead hanging among her lekku and they all look so happy; a grown Anakin lays across the laps of half a dozen Jango’s, laughing at the girl’s scream as Jango lifts her up in a swirling twirl._

_The vision shifts to a new scene, right in the Chancellor’s office._

_All Obi-Wan can feel is pain like blaster-fire and blood coats her mouth like oil. She’s choking on it and there’s a scream of her name – Anakin. He calls out to her, darting forwards to catch her collapsing body and there is a laugh and a feel in the Force like Maul and like Dooku's anger, except **so much stronger** -_

“-vision, she’ll be fine in a moment,” Siri says soothingly and Obi-Wan sucks in a breath, feeling Jango’s solid arms around her as she returns to reality. She feels his panic in the Force and she reaches up, hand colliding with jaw. He grasps it, eyes focussing on hers as she blinks away the after-images.

“Oh,” she says, staring at him, dazed and confused. “They looked like you. All of them. Even the boy.”

“Boy? _Them?_ ” Jango repeats and there is something to his voice…but Obi-Wan feels like she’s going to be sick and there’s a _ping_ around the collar of her hospital gown that makes her frown. Jango reaches, uncovering something. “Healer Che’s been monitoring you,” he says.

“Jast’ika,” she manages to say to him, his eyes suddenly alight with shock. Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter closed as her brain shuts down in answer to her _terrifyingly_ strong moment of clairvoyance, her vision going dark.

“His name was Jast’ika.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a song found on Wookieepedia: Dha Werda Verda, the history of which is pretty fascinating!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the plot moves ever-onwards and Obi-Wan realises the future is far closer to hand than she thought.

_Yoda sits amongst a trio of Jango’s._

_“Deceive you, eyes can,” he says. “In the Force, very different each one of you are.”_

_Shift. Blur._

_A silent battlefield, inside a coliseum. A young boy – **my Jast’ika** – crouches, lifting up a grey and blue helmet, resting it against his forehead. Jango’s helmet. Obi-Wan knows it’s his._

_Something red drips from the inside._

_Shift. Blur, again._

_Two escape pods drift throughout a field of ship debris. From inside one, Master Plo Koon uses the Force – beside him, three Jango’s hover at his back – and when the second pod turns to face the first, another Jango lies dead in the wreckage of cracked transparisteel._

**_NO!_ **

_Shift, blur; more visions race through her mind-_

_A Mandalorian in white and orange armour turns – **no, they share Jango’s face beneath their helmet, another and another; how can this be?** – and takes a blinking holocomm from his belt, turning it on to project the image of a blue, flickering being, whose cloak hides all but their pale chin and five-fingered hands. A human._

_“Commander Cody, the time has come. Execute Order Sixty-Six.”_

_“Yes, my lord,” he says, a ripple like static fizzing and popping, exploding all over the Galaxy. Cody looks to his companions, more Jango-lorians in white and orange, gesturing to the far-off Obi-Wan Kenobi on her dragon-like steed._

_“Blast her!”_

**_WHY?_ **

_Shift-_

“Visions, you will have no more of,” Yoda intones, drawing her out from her dreams, his Force-presence swamping hers and dragging her like a fish on a line. Obi-Wan inhales rapidly, blinking tears from her eyes.

“Master! There’s something wrong, Jango-”

Yoda raps his cane across her bent knees. She’s in a bed – her own bed, in her own quarters. The cane hurts as much as she feels dizzy.

“The Mandalore, within this Temple no longer. Things to return to, had he.”

“ _No,_ ” Obi-Wan gasps, before she’s retching, the echo of Commander Cody’s words bouncing through her skull. _Order 66 made him kill me. A copy of Jango ordered his men – more copies of Jango – to **kill me**._

Yoda misses the vomit, but it’s little more than stomach acid, anyway. He hums, unaffected by her state of body or embarrassment.

“Three weeks, have you been asleep, young Knight. Worried, have we all been. Your visions, numerous. Lost to you, I hope. Vast and always in motion, the future is.”

Obi-Wan feels shaky, but her body is recovered – she feels perfect, except for the nausea that wracks her, originating solely from the horror that she witnessed prior to waking. Yoda’s right – she doesn’t remember all her visions, but she does remember the last few.

“Master Yoda, I think I’m going to have a son.”

The mentor of her great Order looks a little sharper, then, his eyes locking on her as she stares at him, waiting for his answer. She thinks of Jast’ika – _little Jast, little Jast-something, my beautiful son_ – and wonders if he’ll be of her own body. She doesn’t think so. He looked like the Jango’s of her dreams, the many warriors, young and old with Jango in between.

Clones.

“A son, you would have. Dream of this in the Force, you did,” Yoda says, lowly. “Attachment, would you seek?”

“I’m already attached and he is yet a figment, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan admits, full of shame. But he was young, just a boy – and her dream-self called him _ner mesh’la’ad_. How can she not fall so completely for an idea, a _child_ , that might be hers, one day? _Ner mesh’la’ad –_ my beautiful son. She imagines his smile directed at her, his love outpouring in the Force for _her_.

 _My son, just as much as Jango’s_ , Obi-Wan thinks, remembering him speak to her of dreams that…that might not be dreams, not anymore. She struggles to remember that young boy with Jango’s smile and hair, the boy that might be her son.

There is a long moment of silence, before Yoda speaks, sounding the most reluctant she has ever heard him.

“Many years, the Grandmaster of the Jedi, have I been,” he says, “and many years, have I ruled alongside the Council. Laws, decisions, I have influenced all. One decision, I made, I find affects you most, young Knight. Attachment. Love. The definition of the Jedi Code, I have changed, in accordance to values I have imitated. Once, the Jedi had family, spouses – children. But attachment led to love, love to selfishness, selfishness to obsession and obsession to the Dark Side.”

“I know, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan replies, confused as to why he would tell her these things. It is a lesson she learnt long ago, as an Initiate- no, a _Youngling._

“My mind, I have not changed – but exceptions, may I grant,” he says, his seriousness swirling in the Force; a hurricane, waiting to take her, should she not step carefully. “A son, you see, when already, you call your padawan your own. Many Masters, such relationship and feeling they share, with their own. But these Masters, have their _own_ children, they do not. Attached to non-existent sons, they are not. Why, an exception, should you be?”

She is speechless.

 _An exception,_ she thinks, mind whirling. Why _should_ she be allowed this? No! It goes against _everything_ the Code states – everything Master Yoda defines to her now. Obi-Wan shakes her head, somehow outraged at the very idea that she should be _allowed._

“No,” she says, “I should not be an exception. Just- just because I dream of a son that yet does not exist, does not mean I should be one of few among many to be allowed. It breaks everything we’ve ever been taught, every lesson I learned as a Youngling – _no_ , Master Yoda. Do not make me an exception. It is not right and furthermore, I-” she cuts herself off.

Yoda looks at her balefully. “Young Obi-Wan, speak your thoughts, for they are true.”

“I,” Obi-Wan hesitates, thinking of her _Jast’ika_ , with Jango’s face and Jango’s smile. “I love when I should not. I cannot let these feelings into the Force as I would anger or sadness. I hold them within me. I cannot let them go.”

“Tried, have you?”

“Do or do not, there is not try,” Obi-Wan says, repeating his own words back at him. A smile grows on the face of the Grandmaster. Hesitantly, Obi-Wan reciprocates and there is a small warmth to the room, now. It feels like acceptance.

“Understand your feelings, you do,” Yoda says, holding out a weathered hand. Obi-Wan takes it, feeling his presence in the Force. “Guide you though, I might. Show you why love cannot be taken by the Force.”

“Yes, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan says quietly, closing her eyes in tandem with him. She sinks into the Force, feeling him beside her. Inside herself, she can sense her turmoil over the violence of her dreams and the outpouring of sorrow, from seeing her Jast’ika with Jango’s dripping helm. But the remnant of her first vision, from the Room of a Thousand Fountains, lives on inside her like a molten star.

 _‘Love, you feel,’_ Yoda says to her. His presence reaches out, cupping it in his hands like a light. Obi-Wan shivers at his presence, so smoothly dipping in and out of her own as if her shields don’t exist. _‘Cannot let it leave you, unlike anger and sadness, you say.’_

_Yes, Master Yoda. I’m sorry._

_‘Apologies, I have no need of.’_ She feels him reach the tether of her emotions, grasping them lightly and tugging. It hurts and Obi-Wan struggles not to flinch. But Yoda sees all. He soothes the tether and subsequently, her weeping mind. _‘True love, this is. But not alone, for this son, do you feel it for. So strong it is – your love for all things, within here. Love is part of you and this, your being, you cannot let go of.’_

 _But it’s wrong! We’re supposed to be able to let go of our emotions!_ Obi-Wan yells, feeling her frustration. It wells up and Yoda does naught to stop it, only assessing and watching. After a few, long moments, Obi-Wan feels ashamed of her frustration. She gathers it, head metaphorically bowed. She untethers it from herself, knowing where it comes from and accepting that she needs it not; then, she lets go.

 _‘A perfect release, was this,_ ’ Yoda says. Obi-Wan shies away, still so ashamed. She feels him reaching out, touching that, too. _‘Your shame, I feel. So much, you need not feel, young Knight. To live, is to feel. To be a Jedi, is to embrace one’s self wholly and without conditions.’_

_But love-_

_‘Love for beings, love for things – which is disavowed, among the Jedi?’_ Yoda asks her, as if both are not as equally outlawed. She feels pain in the real world – Yoda’s gimer stick across her knees. _‘No,’_ he says, _‘Perhaps, a lesson from young Skywalker, you must learn.’_

_Anakin?_

Yoda hums and then there is a glimmer of a memory, Anakin’s words flowing through her mind.

_“Compassion is unconditional love! Master Yoda, my interpretation of the code is as equally valid as any other being’s – why **shouldn’t** I love my mother and Obi-Wan?”_

Obi-Wan tries to erase his voice from her mind. _No, that is not compassion, unconditional love is not part of the Code._

 _‘So, your padawan’s interpretation, invalid? Or your philosophies, both, in line with a true Jedi’s?’_ asks the Grandmaster. _‘Work on your shame, you must. Ego, none, you have. To live in serenity, one’s core belief in one’s self, strong, must be. When birth your child, you do, reassess your beliefs, you must. To be a Jedi, your attachment and love, turn to selfishness, never should. Selflessness, for the sake of the galaxy, you must have.’_

_I do not want to be an exception, Master._

_‘The Force, tells me this is right, it does. Your own choices, may you make. Trust you to tell me then, I will,’_ Yoda says, before he deliberately points out her shame to her once more. It burns inside of her. _‘Release it in time, you must. Fester, it will. A mind healer, you might see, if it worsens.’_

 _Yes, Master Yoda,_ Obi-Wan says, before he finally leaves her mind. It’s a pleasant feeling, unlike the prying, helping hands of Vokara Che and Anakin, which make her feel like she’s just been trodden on. She comes back to herself, opening her eyes and immediately grimacing at the smell of stomach acid on the floor.

Master Yoda taps her knees again, lighter this time. “Family, important to your people, they are. Investigate, I would have you. A personal assignment. A year, you have, to understand why. Effect you, it does and have you know why and how, I would. Young Skywalker’s apprenticeship, I will focus on and help, you will, instead of taking charge.”

“Master,” Obi-Wan frowns, objecting, “He is _my_ padawan.”

“And much on your mind, you have. Too soon, were you given guardianship of your padawan, young Knight,” Yoda says, bowing his head. “Time to grieve, time to grow, you must be given. Clear to me, this is. Only twenty-five standard years, are you. Very young, when next to an old man like me.”

“I can look after Anakin, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan presses, “I assure you.”

“Assured, I am. But decision, I have made. Spend time with Jango Fett and release your attachments, in time, as Master Vokara Che has recommended. Go to Stewjon and discover your heritage. Learn yourself and grow as both a person and Jedi. Make the decision to go – or stay.”

Obi-Wan’s heart pangs. _Jango is not here,_ she thinks, the reminder of her loss intolerable. Her heart aches, even though intellectually, she knows he could not stay forever.

“I don’t have his comm frequency,” she croaks.

A mischievous smile grows on Yoda’s face and he leans forwards slightly to speak, before hopping off the bed.

“Untrue, that is. Good day, Knight Kenobi.”

The Grandmaster leaves promptly, Obi-Wan dazzled by his last words to her. _Untrue – his comm frequency is here somewhere. He must have left it with Anakin, or hidden somewhere in my quarters._

She suddenly races to her feet, frantic and frenzied with a need to be close to him. It’s not fair – she’s been asleep! Why leave without saying goodbye? Obi-Wan exits her bedroom into the main living area; it’s so different and she skids to a stop as she notices.

Qui-Gon’s plants are rearranged. The wall-crawlers line the space above the doors to the Master-Padawan bedrooms, shelves like catwalks hanging in zig-zags among the warm, fluorescent lighting with the potted monstrosities. The dry-biome plants live up there – the flowering, wet plants nearer to the ground beside the sofa. The organisation of them all is clear.

“Jango…” She thinks, _because Anakin wouldn’t do this_. Anakin’s soft mat is unrolled messily in the centre of the room, right below the dry-biome plants; Anakin’s favourite is in line with where his eyes might look up to, if he laid down on his back for a breathing exercise. She notices another mat, beside her own where it’s rolled up under the low-rise table in front of the sofa. It looks small, but thicker in proportion – Yoda’s, perhaps.

In the galley kitchen, set in between the square fresher and Anakin’s room, the blinds to the window are open, letting in the bright, Coruscanti sun. Qui-Gon had gotten this room especially for them both; Obi-Wan can remember the Quartermaster bringing them both around the various apartments, her head bearing back as the rays shone on her pale, bruised neck. It had been right after Bandomeer – Qui-Gon had gotten them this apartment barely a moment later.

Her heart twists as she thinks of her old Master. _I miss you,_ she thinks, _and I still have much to learn, apparently._ Obi-Wan tries not to let Yoda’s words hurt her, for he speaks the truth. She wasn’t ready to look after Anakin and she does need time to grow – but she has done her duty admirably and come to love her padawan. Taking him from her like this…

 _But it is not taking,_ Obi-Wan scolds herself, hearing her comm beep from inside her room. _It is logical._

Debating with herself, Obi-Wan scans the room with her eyes, not seeing anything outwardly obvious that Jango might have left behind. She doesn’t even know when he left – or if Anakin has a message from him to give to her. She looks at the wall chrono, above the door. _He’ll be in classes at this time of day,_ she thinks before retreating to her bedroom again, her feverish resolve fading as she picks up her comm.

“Master Che,” she mutters, seeing her orders to come to the Halls of Healing for her vaccinations; a padawan would be giving them to her and she should be careful in her use of protocol. Obi-Wan stretches her arms out, closing her eyes; she’d been cared for in her sleep, obviously and her muscles might be weakened, but they aren’t completely gone. To be quite honest, she feels better than she has since before her original mission to the planet begun.

 _What of Anakin?_ Obi-Wan thinks. _How has he taken my lack of consciousness? Jango leaving must have hurt him._ Obi-Wan wonders, too, if Quinlan has gone out to Tatooine – what progress had been made, there? Had her barrage of Force-visions frozen his resolve? It frustrates her, thinking of what-if’s and current events. Why did she have to be like this?

“I’m going to go the Halls of Healing, then I’m stealing Anakin from classes,” Obi-Wan swears, lips pursed.

First, though, she needs to clean her bedroom floor.

Once her chore is done, a trip to the fresher is taken – then, her clothes are changed, the full suit of Jedi outerwear strangely heavy on her shoulders. Her hair has been braided by Anakin, clearly and Obi-Wan wavers between taking the bundle of braids at her hairline out after washing, because by now she knows how to care for them without removing the small, tight ties.

… _I’ll leave it,_ she decides, though she does pull all of her hair, braids included, back into a neat bun at the base of her neck. Obi-Wan debates over having two in, like she had as a padawan, before she discards the idea; they make her look so much younger and frankly, while Yoda seems to have remembered that despite her ‘adult’ hairstyle, Obi-Wan still prefers the single bun.

She leaves her quarters, keeping her shields up as she traverses floor after floor. Many Jedi are shocked to see her – she hears rumours of her having gone into another Force-trance, but that isn’t the truth. Obi-Wan has been overwhelmed by visions before and it is not a trance she goes into, only a waking dream. Clearly, Yoda and Anakin have built more of her defences up, her subconscious taking over. Obi-Wan can feel her shields – but her awareness is naturally lowered, their familiarity and thick strength normalised to what she usually has them like.

 _It’s impressive, but I still will need to look over them at length – Yoda could get into my head far too easily._ Obi-Wan shudders, pressing onwards, waving half-heartedly at one of her crèchemates.

“Obi-Wan,” one, Harhil-Ahn, starts, taking her hand without warning and squeezing lightly, stopping her in her path. “I heard what happened. What are you doing up? You should rest.”

“I have rested enough,” Obi-Wan says neutrally. Harhil-Ahn’s worry blooms in the Force and she makes herself relax, breathing in and out. Embracing her shields – pressing her presence _outwards_ – she lets her honesty ring clear. “I am healed, Harhil-Ahn. Truly. I am weak from inactivity, is all.”

Harhil-Ahn clutches her hand tightly, before letting it go. “I believe you, Obi-Wan. You would not lie.”

Her gut twinges. _I lied to Mace._ “I would not,” she says, the words like vinegar on her tongue.

Upon reaching the Halls of Healing – not allowing anyone else to stop her on her way – Obi-Wan submits herself to young Padawan Murusu Dinn’s attentions, seated in the open treatment area rather than where she last stayed – in the active infirmary.

“Master Che has approved a whole vaccination variety,” Murusu says, reading off a sheet of flimsi. “They are waiting for you in various multi-applications, including injection, digestion and absorption. There are ninety-three forms of vaccination within the twenty-two doses I have been ordered to give you, under the supervision of Master Vokara Che.”

Murusu rattles off an impressive list that Obi-Wan attempts not to wince at, forcing her grimace into an agreeable smile.

“-and Zzhua Plague. Do you willingly allow me to administer the vaccinations to these listed diseases, infections, plagues, viruses and other illnesses?”

“I do. Is there anything I need to sign?”

“Here, please.”

Obi-Wan is offered a tablet and a pen, with which she freely writes her full name in Stewjoni script. Murusu makes the tablet disappear pretty quickly after that and over the next hour, the padawan watches her with bright, purple eyes, the Force at her fingertips in case Obi-Wan has an unforeseen reaction to the plethora of inoculations.

“…I would recommend staying another hour, Knight Kenobi,” Murusu finally states, sounding suspicious and wary. Obi-Wan shakes her head.

“I’ve had these before. The Force-trance may have purged my body of these defences, but they know them – I do not believe I will have an adverse reaction. Does the Force not tell you this, as well?”

The padawan hesitates and Obi-Wan offers her serenity in the Force. Watching Murusu’s eyes close, Obi-Wan waits patiently, smiling a little when her head nods firmly.

“The Force is calm. I do not believe you will react badly – but if I am wrong, please return to the Halls of Healing,” Murusu says, the young girl nodding once more. She takes up her flimsi of instructions once more, scanning it carefully. “Those are all Master Che’s orders. Would you like anything else? A menstrual cycle pause-pill? Any mood-disorder medication requests? Appointments? Master Che has recommendations here for counselling, should you feel the need.”

Obi-Wan’s stomach flip-flops at the reminder that she needs her anti-gestation shot, in which a menstrual cycle pause-pill would be included to prevent _accidents_. The Force quavers around her and in opposition to what she feels, Obi-Wan speaks up, requesting one of Murusu.

The padawan takes up a tablet, checking the inventory. A frown slowly grows across her face.

“What is it?” Obi-Wan asks.

“The needs of your physiology require a fresh batch to be made up per use. The stock made to answer your Force-trance has expired. Can you return in a month, Knight Kenobi?”

 _A month?_ Obi-Wan thinks, appalled. The Force rumbles again, sticking against her bones, telling her _no_.

“I-” she starts, before swallowing, shaking her head. “I can wait, though I will be off-planet shortly.”

“You will have fifteen days following the creation of your specified medication,” Murusu tells her, “and not a day more. Please abstain from…from sexual activity until after your dose,” she says, cheeks turning indigo in embarrassment. Obi-Wan wants to be amused by her teenage sensibilities, but she can’t drum up any joy, too worried over what the Force wants from her.

_Jast’ika is not my blood. He is a clone – like the others. What does this mean?_

“Thank-you, Padawan Dinn. Your help has been appreciated. Please inform Master Che that I will not be taking her offer of grief counselling, however; Master Yoda has given me a mission.” Obi-Wan tells her, before quickly adding, “A mission that should not lead me to trouble.”

Murusu bites her lip. “But…but isn’t that what Jedi do? Get into trouble?”

“You’re being corrupted by these nasty healers,” Obi-Wan replies, shying away from her own worries in the face of such an opening. “Trouble finds _us_ , not the other way around. The Force is mischievous and ineffable.”

“That’s the kind of talk that makes me want to stay inside the Temple,” Murusu jokes, before Obi-Wan stands from her seat, bowing shallowly. Murusu copies Obi-Wan, her padawan braid falling past her shoulder. “Good luck with your mission, Knight Kenobi.”

“And you with your apprenticeship, Padawan,” Obi-Wan offers in turn, before making her way out of the Halls of Healing – straight to Anakin’s classroom.

With her shields up, deliberately keeping her presence from her padawan, Obi-Wan silently enters the overlook of the tower classroom Anakin is currently being tutored in. Among other padawans and Initiates of a similar age to him, her young Skywalker is deadly focused on keeping a defence against the opposing team in their game of Force push-pull. It makes her smile – for Anakin is alone except for two, the rest of his team focused on pummelling their opponents.

“Knight Kenobi,” their teacher, Master Risa Gack, inclines her head from beside her. “Your padawan is strong in the Force. It has been hard to keep him distracted during your incapacitation. Having you back will be a boon upon my peers. Skywalker is tenacious and his mindset is unideal.”

“I am to further disappoint the Jedi’s breadth of teachers – I am to go away on a mission,” she says, quiet. It makes her feel angry on behalf of Anakin, hearing Gack’s assessment. “Master Yoda will be instructing him in the ways of the Force. I would appreciate a report every month for my perusal – but otherwise, if you have any complains, Master Yoda will be your new port of call.”

“Padawan Skywalker requires the experience of a Master to guide him.”

“And I am going to _get_ that experience,” Obi-Wan says, unable to help the true frisson of anger. She has tried her best. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – Anakin’s control dips, then, feeling the disturbance in the Force. The opposite side takes him out, knocking him off his feet and very quickly, his team is overwhelmed.

“Distribution: great,” Gack raises her voice. “Contingency plan: weak. You cannot rely solely on a single plan of attack, or defence. Padawan Skywalker, your Master has awoken and clearly wishes to say goodbye, once more.”

 _Clearly?_ Obi-Wan glares at Gack, but the Jedi Master is unflappable, Anakin looking up sharply, hurt in his eyes.

“Master?” he calls out, confused.

“Anakin – a word outside, for a moment, if Master Gack is willing.”

Gack inclines her head, hands hidden in her robe sleeves. “He may sit out this round, as if simulating the loss of a great asset. Class, regroup and discuss alternate strategies in the face of Padawan Skywalker’s ‘defeat’.”

“Yes, Master,” the class say as one, Anakin getting to his feet slowly and going to the door. Obi-Wan looks to Gack, hissing under her breath.

“That was unnecessary and distasteful. I am aware Anakin has many areas to improve upon, but it is _my_ duty to tell him how we will work on them – especially, seeing as that _method_ will involve my temporary absence, during a time where childish attachment still runs truer than a Jedi’s understanding. Master Yoda’s help is a boon he has not treated lightly, thus far and your words would imply that I am either unfit or that I do not care. Both, even.”

Gack is still – _still_ – unmoved. She even has the gall to say thusly, “I am a Jedi Master, trained in the upbringing of Initiates and Padawans. It is a critical stage in their development and both I do not believe you suited to the task and know that Padawan Skywalker cannot be taught. He is stone and we are the wind.”

“He is not stone – he is a young boy who grew up a slave,” Obi-Wan snaps a little too loudly, the class below them quieting. Obi-Wan reigns in her anger, closing her eyes. Gack waits, silent. When Obi-Wan continues, she knows the Younglings are listening. “I know my own faults and I know Anakin’s. He is my padawan for a reason. If you have complaints about our arrangement, bring them to the Council and don’t take them out on me.”

“Some Jedi have forgotten,” Gack says, bowing her head slightly in adherence to Obi-Wan’s last words, “but once, it was an unsaid thing that Knights should be old enough for their own species to have children before they willingly take on a padawan of their own. You are far too young, Kenobi.”

At that, Obi-Wan’s lip curls – because if there’s one thing she knows of the Stewjoni, it’s this.

“Perhaps. But your ignorance is clear, for my species can have children as young as eleven, in either three genders.” Obi-Wan knows not _why_ – for the Stewjoni are Near-Human themselves and perhaps Yoda was right about the need for her to discover more of her people – but her statement is true. Bowing her head in a faux-show of respect, Obi-Wan whirls around, leaving shortly.

Outside the classroom doors, by the stairs leading up to Gack’s overlook, Anakin waits for her, scuffing his foot against the floor. Obi-Wan is insanely relieved upon finding him there and she wastes no time before embracing him, arms wrapping around his thin shoulders and her head burrowing into his neck.

Anakin clutches back, tension disappearing. “Obi-Wan, you’re awake,” he whispers, squeezing around her waist. “I thought you’d never wake up and I’d be given to another Master.”

His words hit close to Bad Points that Obi-Wan is _very_ careful to pay attention to.

“I am a Jedi and I am your _Jetii-Buir_ ,” she murmurs directly into his ear, “and you will not be given to anyone else, not like that.”

“But what did Master Gack mean, then?” Anakin asks, tilting back to see her. Obi-Wan hesitates – the wrong decision. His eyes widen in fright. “Where are you going?”

“Master Yoda has given me a task to complete…and in the meantime, he shall take you on as a padawan true.”

“ _No_.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan presses, taking his hands tightly, crouching in front of him. “I am going to my home-planet of Stewjon, where I have been ordered to… _holiday_ , though Yoda used different words.”

Anakin pleads, “Can’t I come with you?”

“Master Yoda wants to give you more one-on-one tutoring, Anakin. It is a privilege and he can help you where I cannot. In time- in time,” Obi-Wan repeats, “we will grow as people. Master Yoda knows things I could not – can _see_ you in a way I daren’t, lest I bring sorrow to my own heart. I am no experienced Knight and I was unprepared to take you as my padawan. I was a padawan myself.”

 _Yoda is right,_ she thinks, _but Anakin looks so sad. I don’t want to disappoint him._

“Are you coming back?” he asks, pitiful, on the verge of tears. Obi-Wan takes his face in her hands, bringing their foreheads together, holding them together then pressing a kiss to his brow.

“I would never leave you,” she vows, “and I will return within the year, to visit and more. I have a year to complete the mission appointed to me and even have permission to seek out Jango, wherever in the Galaxy he might be.”

“ _Buir_ left.”

Obi-Wan’s heart pangs, but there’s something to his voice – a spark of solace, in an ocean of upset.

“Where did he go? Why? Did he tell you?” she asks, running her fingers down his cheeks, pressing at the collar of his padawan tunics. Anakin nods.

“He left me his home comm frequency, but it’s encoded. I can’t break it or find out where it’s from,” he says, a disgusted look etching its way onto his face, “and not even the Jedi Archives can tell me the location. There’s just empty space!”

“Have you contacted him on it, yet?” Obi-Wan asks, dreading his answer. Surely, Jango wouldn’t have given Anakin a dummy comm.

Thankfully, her padawan nods – then says something she barely believes. “He showed me Jaster.”

“J- _Jaster?_ ” she stutters, eyes going wide. Anakin smiles at her, a light reappearing in his eyes.

“Jaster Fett, my _vod’ika_ ,” he says, pride ringing through his voice like a song. “He’s only twelve days old!”

“ _Twelve_ \- oh, it’s already started,” Obi-Wan gasps, the realisation setting in her bones like ice. The Jango-lorians – the _clones._ “Jast’ika,” she says, who is a baby in Jango's arms.

Anakin beams.

“Jast’ika.”


	6. Chapter 6

The planet is brighter than she remembered.

Buildings are lit with neon along the edges, shuttle-lanes a zig-zag above; this world is different from Coruscant in the way the inhabitants walk the streets below as much as they fly. Obi-Wan finds her way back to her old apartment, disguised once more as a normal civilian, though her Jedi robes are folded carefully into her bag. When she arrives, it is by a stroke of luck that her landlord is arguing with one of her old neighbours in the lobby.

“-out, the pet has to go or _you_ do,” they say, looming over them intimidatingly. They’re lanky, like many of the planet’s original residents and as her old neighbour quakes and shakes in their boots, the landlord see Obi-Wan. Their eyes narrow. “Ben Kentooi. You disappeared.”

“I’m back, now.”

“Your flat’s already let out,” they say, flatly. “You aren’t getting it again.”

“I’m only looking for my things, good sir – did you pawn them anywhere specific?” Obi-Wan asks, attempting to keep her cheekiness to a minimum. Her landlord grunts.

“The furniture was mine anyway, but the rest was ransacked. Silver Bones Syndicate.” Her heart races. _Keep calm,_ Obi-Wan thinks, making sure she doesn’t flinch. Her landlord shrugs. “Heard some funny things about you, though. I’ll let you leave without owing me if you tell the truth.”

“And if I don’t want to tell?” she says in a clipped manner, hands behind her back. Obi-Wan knows she’s not intimidating, not when he doesn’t know who or what she is – but the stance boosts her confidence and resolve.

Her landlord turns fully in her direction. “Ain’t nothing bad about what I heard. Heard Zeb Bones kidnapped the Mandalore, Jango Fett and his wife – you. It true? You the Mandalore’s wife?”

“No. We’re barely acquainted,” Obi-Wan lies between her teeth. “You said the Syndicate took my belongings? Did that happen to include a silver device about _hey_ length?” She indicates the size and shape of her lightsaber, but her landlord shakes their head, eyeing her up once – their eyes dragging like they _know_ , like they’re imagining her without clothes on and without dignity.

Unhappy with his answer, Obi-Wan asks one final question. “Where could I find Zeb Bones’ base? I want my things back.”

Her landlord gives her an address, corroborated by her old neighbour – who her landlord glares at, returning to threatening them as she leaves. The neon lighting is eye-catching. She wonders if it changes in intensity, depending on the level of darkness – it’s later in the planets yearly season cycle than when she was last here and darker, as a result.

“Back into the belly of the beast,” Obi-Wan murmurs to herself, settling on the roof of an adjacent building to the warehouse where the Silver Bones Syndicate is holed up. She is not going into this unprepared.

Ignoring the fear in her chest – ignoring the terror lodged in her veins – Obi-Wan watches their patrols, reaching out in the Force to check how many are in the building. It makes her skin crawl, feeling their awful, depraved auras, many faintly familiar to her. Guards who’d watched her – even Zeb the Near-Human himself. Unable to help it, she shudders.

_I don’t want to go back in there._

The thought doesn’t so much as drift through her mind, but scream, rushing through with flashing lights and explosions to match. Her heart-rate picks up and it takes too long, holding her knees to her chest with her eyes squeezed shut, for Obi-Wan to calm down. There’s a phantom feeling of her legs being pushed open and she holds them with a white-knuckled grip, breathing in and out.

Her bonds with the rest of her lineage are closed. Anakin, with Yoda’s tutelage, has been so very disciplined of late and he does not feel her panic, though Obi-Wan knows he would have wanted to know. She won’t purposefully put that kind of turmoil on her padawan, however; it would be irresponsible and selfish. She is a grown adult. She should be able to deal with this herself.

It doesn’t stop her from wanting that comfort. She wants Anakin’s Force-presence pressed up against her own, like the hot Tatooine sun. She wants Dooku lingering at the edges of her mind, ready to pounce on unsuspecting intruders. She wants Yoda – Yoda, who had given her this damned _holiday_ , knowing she would go through this sort of pain.

 _Qui-Gon_ , she thinks, _I need you._

It has been many years since Obi-Wan has admitted she’s needed her Master. All she wants in this moment, as she sits on top of a building, mere kilometres from where she’d been imprisoned and violated, is the solace of her Master’s presence. She wants his rock-solid will and his chaotic mind, always doing what is least expected.

“He’s not here, he is one with the Force,” Obi-Wan whispers to herself, trying to pull herself out of this spiral. “There are things to be done.” Like getting her lightsaber back. Like getting off this planet. Maybe she might find Jango’s old ship – surely it would be easy to find. Ships aren’t so often abandoned, not ships in the condition Jango’s will be in, most likely.

_Why did you leave me?_

Obi-Wan winces. Jango should have left long ago. Little Jaster is less than a month old – and Obi-Wan had been keeping Jango with her in the Temple when he clearly had to be wherever Jaster was. Jango would have had only nine days from when she sunk into her Force visions to get there in time, which, even accounting for hyperspace lanes, is not a lot of time at all. He probably missed the birth itself, or whatever counts as _birth_ for grown children.

He never told her about him. It’s another reason for her to let him go; he has his own matters, his own privacy. Obi-Wan should not feel bitterness on her tongue when she thinks _I told him his sons name_ , should not hold onto it and let it linger, rather than releasing it. Keeping emotions like this – except for her shame and her love – is against everything that characterises Obi-Wan as a Jedi. It is a mistake to keep feeling bitter, to _purposefully_ keep it like a wreath, ringed around the idea that is _Jango_ in her heart.

Jango is not hers. Obi-Wan cannot claim him, nor should. Similarly, Jango holds her no obligations. She is not pregnant – he is not morally obliged to stick around on that matter. He could have left before, he _should_ have left earlier than he did…

Down below, Zeb Bones steps outside onto the street.

Obi-Wan is immediately paralysed, watching him strut about, saying farewells to an older gentleman that can only be his father. They look the same, but have slightly different builds and colourings. Zeb laughs.

 _He doesn’t even care,_ Obi-Wan surmises. _He doesn’t see anything wrong with what he’s done._ The Near-Human should be agonised over his choices, but he isn’t. He did those things to her because he felt _disrespected_ – he wanted to humiliate her and he got what he wanted, regardless that Obi-Wan and Jango both escaped.

Watching him say goodbye to his father, then return to his warehouse, Obi-Wan listens as the Force tells her the time is nearing. Fear and relief swell in equal measure inside her chest when she finally rises, dropping down onto the street below with a Force-assisted jump. She is invisible, a phantom in the night.

There are no security cameras, thankfully. Obi-Wan goes around the side, avoiding the main entrance for now, wanting to get a better idea of the layout. She finds a single back exit, meant for supplying the warehouse with goods. She shivers the closer she gets, the Force telling her that she has been here before. This is where she was brought in.

The corridors are dark, with flickering lights that don’t illuminate the area well; guards pass her by when she presses against black corners. Obi-Wan has to stop many times in those corners, just to catch her breath.

The she finds it.

Jango’s _beskar’gam._

Zeb has clearly used it for target-practice, most likely to check its authenticity. The air is acrid from blaster smoke and patches on the floor and walls around the dirty armour show off the pure power the Near-Human has used, testing it. Obi-Wan slips into the room, crouching beside it. The iron is cold when she picks it up.

Rubbing the pauldron in hand with her undersleeve, shivering – from cold and from the dreaded memories of this place, desperately wanting the protection of her Jedi robes – Obi-Wan looks at her reflection in the piece of _beskar._ Freckles dot her pale skin, the long hair at the back of her head odd in comparison to the shorter front. Obi-Wan hadn’t realised how strange it looks, until now.

 _What does Jango think of me?_ She wonders, no longer trusting his continued use of the word _mesh’la._ There are only hints of beauty to her plain face, like the shape and colour of her eyes and the hint of cheekbone on either side of her face, skin drawn tight over it.

A sound draws her out of her contemplation – a laugh that makes her hair stand on end.

 _“-and then that bastard, Ohnaka, told me he was a Mandalore.”_ Scoffing loudly, Zeb the Near-Human brags, _“Scared the piss out of me. But we got his armour, at least. Mandalorian armour goes for thousands.”_

 _“If it really is beskar’gam, indeed it does,”_ says a new voice, gruffer and by far more angry. Obi-Wan hears their footsteps coming closer and she looks up to the rafters, finding an open beam. Using the Force, she jumps up, landing soft as a feather on the durasteel beam just as Zeb and the other, who Obi-Wan saw earlier, enter the storage area.

“It held up to blaster-fire fine,” Zeb shows him, kicking one of the larger plates. It skids across the room, to where a pile of crates sit. The other Near-Human, who Obi-Wan guessed to be his father, heads towards it carefully, picking it up and judging it silently. Then, he looks in the crates.

“And this?”

“The bitch’s things.”

“Hmph,” Zeb’s father throws the _beskar_ aside gently, where it joins its fellows on the floor. He rifles through Obi-Wan’s precious few belongings and it’s only when he brings out a familiar bundle of fabric, does her heart stop beating. “What…”

He unfurls her robe, her lightsabre falling to the ground with a quiet _clunk._ Zeb’s brow knits together, but his father simply leans down to pick it up, anger dissipating.

“…this is a lightsabre,” he says flatly. “Zeb, you _fool._ Come. I must call the other captains.” The man drops her robe and walks back towards the door, her lightsabre clutched tightly in hand. Obi-Wan watches him leave, Zeb on his tail, asking what’s so important about a hunk of metal.

 _My lightsabre,_ Obi-Wan thinks faintly, even as she drops down to the ground. Her plan must change. No doubt, the captain will keep her lightsabre as a souvenir or worse, dismantle it. Obi-Wan knows that the Silver Bones Syndicate have already been brought to court over the matter of her abduction, but they had been denying it most profusely – her lightsabre is evidence of Zeb’s and, as a whole, the Syndicate’s guilt.

But Jango’s _beskar’gam_ is still lying on the floor. Obi-Wan can only do so much for her lightsabre and in the long run, her testimony is worth more than an artefact – but this? Jango’s _beskar’gam?_ He said it himself that he had no iron skin. He is no Mandalorian without armour of his own.

Swiftly, Obi-Wan searches for his under-armour – the blue jerkin and hide padding that went beneath all that _beskar._ Most of it, she finds among her own belongings, of which she picks out nothing – she has no room for keepsakes, of which she had few in the first place. Most had been local plants.

The Force tells her she is safe where she is, for the time being, but Obi-Wan sets a fast pace in any case. When she has gathered as much of Jango’s gear as she can, wishing Zeb’s men hadn’t so clearly stripped his belongings of weapons, Obi-Wan does not hesitate before putting the _beskar’gam_ on her own body.

It is sacrilegious, she knows. Obi-Wan is not a Mando’ad. Her skin crawls at the idea, only the thought that this is temporary saving her from pure shame – there is no other way she can save Jango’s armour from being sold.

 _I will give it back to you,_ she promises him, thinking of what else might have been left behind as she puts his bucket on her head. The HUD flickers to life in a show of pale blues and greys. _Did you have a ship of your own? Is it still here?_

Obi-Wan endeavours to find it, if she can.

Leaving the storage room, the Jedi Knight heads out again into the complex, walking steadily down corridors. Unfortunately, she must have made a wrong turn somewhere, because she finds herself approaching a large room full of heat signatures, two guards making noise at the sight of her at the end of the hallway.

“Mandalorian!” One shouts, bringing up their blaster. The ensuing shot is easy to dodge and Obi-Wan finds herself sinking into a fighting headspace. She steps out of the way of blaster shots, using hand-to-hand against the two enemies to knock them to the ground. When the doors slide open to reveal the meeting room of Syndicate members, adrenaline is already flowing through her veins.

“Ah, fucking Mandos,” says Zeb’s father, clutching her lightsabre tightly. Holograms in a half-circle around him, standing in a mockery of a Jedi Council, watch as she steps into the room and trips the guard stupid enough to rush her into the wall, knocking himself out. “Who are you?”

“I think-” Obi-Wan begins, voice crisp and cold as ice, “-you know me better as _that bitch.”_

Zeb sweats, blurting out, “You’re the Mandalorian’s wife!”

 _Why do they keep saying that?_ Snorting to herself, Obi-Wan tries not to let panic overtake her, trusting in the Force as she steps further into the room. “I am not here for vengeance,” she starts, “only to retrieve my belongings.”

 _“Like the armour,”_ one of the Syndicate captains mutters, the nature of the hologram technology raising the volume of his voice to be heard easily by the entire room.

She rolls her shoulders, agitated. “Like the armour, yes,” she snaps, clenching her fists. She looks directly at the Near-Human with her lightsabre. She still does not know his name and it bothers her. Obi-Wan holds out her hand expectantly.

He glances at the lightsabre in his grasp.

“Ah…you are the Jedi,” he assumes, lip curling. “Your identity has been kept from the Republic. I’ll assume that ‘Ben Kentooi’ is a pseudonym.”

“Indeed.”

The Near-Human inclines his head, sneering. “I am Legion Captain Dozrac of the Silver Bones Syndicate. You have had the pleasure of acquainting my son, Zebrac.”

 _Dozrac._ “It was hardly a pleasure, I assure you.” She curls her fingers, arm still outstretched. “I will only ask once. My lightsabre, please.”

“Such manners…you should have thought better than to insult my son,” he replies, sneer doubling in intensity. He flicks his hand and then the guards attack.

Prepared, unlike last time, Obi-Wan can dodge the many blaster shots, moving in a clockwise rotation around the room to incapacitate the guards, using their compatriots’ attacks against each other. Zeb and Dozrac stay in the centre of the room, the father growing angry as the son grows incensed.

“Bitch!” He shouts, once, then twice. Obi-Wan ignores it the first time.

But the second time, she moves into the centre.

Dozrac is taken out with a solid punch to the face. She takes her lightsabre – _the Force sings and it’s like coming home_ – and ignites it even as she turns, Zeb’s eyes widening as blue light settles an inch from his throat.

Inside Jango’s _buy’ce,_ Obi-Wan’s eyes go blurry.

“You put me through…you put me through something I never want to go through again,” she says, voice quiet. Obi-Wan struggles not to sound weak or desperate, but something must come through, because a cruel glint forms in Zeb’s eyes. She speaks before he can reply. “I would kill you, but that is not the Jedi way. I know your name. I know where you live and who your father is. Your actions reflect on the Silver Bones Syndicate and I will personally ensure you never see the light of day, once you are prosecuted for your actions against Jango and I.”

From the circle of holograms, another captain speaks. _“You cannot hold the act of one over the many.”_

“Can I not? I must inform the Senate.” Obi-Wan steps back after her sarcastic comment, lowering her lightsabre. She wonders how she looks – a Jedi in Mandalorian armour. Considering their long history of conflict, it must be astounding to some.

Zeb glares at her, saying in a warning voice, “This isn’t over!”

Another guard comes up from behind, but the Force is with her; Obi-Wan ducks and knocks his feet out from under him, foot stamping his head to the ground. The crunch of his nose is audible, blood spraying in droplets over the dura-crete flooring.

“It’s over,” says Obi-Wan, in the flattest voice she can manage.

 _I’m done here,_ she thinks in disgust, sparing one last look for Zeb before departing.

* * *

As soon as she returns to her ship, Obi-Wan throws up in the fresher.

She isn’t ill – Vokara would have never let her leave if she was – but she’s certainly nauseous. Stress has brought her here, to kneeling in the fresher and regurgitating her lunch. Zeb’s face floats through her mind, causing her to recall that awful, bone-deep embarrassment. But this time, Jango’s firm grip isn’t there to protect her and keep the feeling from progressing.

Obi-Wan feels small, like a piece of flesh. She’s ruined for life. How is she supposed to live the rest of her life, knowing how she’s been treated? Is this what she deserves? The more she thinks of it, despite her own protests, the more it makes sense. She deserved it.

 _Jango wouldn’t say that,_ she tries to convince herself, _he’d tell me off for being like this._ If there’s anything Obi-Wan knows about him, it’s that he’d do that. Jango believes that he could have stopped it, if only he tried harder, clearly – but in truth, so does Obi-Wan. He went through that, too. How does he feel, being forced to assault her so publicly? Obi-Wan wants to know – she wants to know _desperately –_ if they’re the same.

“At least he has Jast’ika,” she mumbles, forcing herself to wash out her mouth and have a ration bar. She thinks of Jango’s newborn son. What does he look like? Jast’ika a clone, so ‘mini Jango’ would be an appropriate description. But Obi-Wan doesn’t know what a young Jango looks like and she only barely remembers what Jast’ika looked like in her vision; like all Force-given dreams, they’ve begun to slip away from her mind like sand, slipping through her fingers.

A hint of jealousy slithers into her heart. Anakin already knows what his _vod_ looks like. Obi-Wan has Jango’s comm number – she should just call him.

…he wouldn’t have given Anakin his comm number if he didn’t want to be called, would he?

Obi-Wan hauls herself to her feet, stripping off Jango’s _beskar’gam_ as she goes. She deposits the armour in the spare bunk of her ship and heads to the comm panel, hesitating at the last minute. Yes, perhaps he expects her call – but the reason she’s calling is a notorious sleep-depriver. Children that young are always awake when you least need them to be and cry all the time. Even the Temple crèchelings need constant comforting.

 _I’ll call later,_ she gives into her regret, hands forming fists to stop her from plugging in Jango’s comm number. _I’ll finish my business here, **then** call him._

The beginning of that business is seeing whether Jango collected his ship or not.

Obi-Wan makes a plan, using the ‘net to research most likely venders and ship berths, not sure whether to be looking for a merchant or a ship piling up the parking tickets. Eventually, Obi-Wan strikes gold: there’s an advert for a vessel nearby with the label ‘former Mando ship’ in the description.

“There you are,” she murmurs, before getting the address of the Junker attempting to sell it off. Then it’s a quick flight to the scrapyard, the owner scratching her head at the sight of Obi-Wan’s Temple-owned vessel.

“I don’t buy from thieves!” The Junker calls out, wary. Obi-Wan smiles thinly.

Donning her robes, Obi-Wan acts the perfect Jedi, hands hidden in her sleeves and her hood up to hide her face from cameras; only those front-facing would see her features distinctly.

The Junker clearly recognises her uniform.

“Oh! Sorry there,” the Human woman chuckles nervously, crossing her arms. “How can I help the Jedi, today?”

“An advert for a ship caught my eye,” Obi-Wan begins, saying, “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Republic’s suit against the Silver Bones Syndicate.”

The Junker makes a face. “Yeah. What’s the ship got to do with it?”

“Not only a Jedi was harmed,” she says, voice quieting against her will. “I believe the Mandalorian who owned the ship you’re selling was the second victim. If so, the ship needs to be taken in as evidence, to prove his identity.”

“…ah,” the Junker blinks, nodding. “Right, got it. Yeah, the Mando left me with the ship after that incident, no word. Probably the one you’re looking for. Will you be paying his outstanding berth fees?”

“The Temple will, of course, compensate you,” says Obi-Wan, smiling. _I love it when negotiations go smoothly._ “I will need to contact my Order – a trade of ships should suffice, I imagine, until the sufficient credits are transferred.”

The Junker looks over Obi-Wan’s shoulder to her ship, a spacious model meant for long trips and ship living; a quick nod from the woman is enough for Obi-Wan to relax. “You’ll fly the Mando’s ship to Coruscant, then come back for your own?” She clarifies.

“Indeed. Is this acceptable?”

Visibly considering something – most likely whether to drive a harder bargain, despite their clear respect for the Jedi – the Junker nods, with the caveat, “You’ll pay for berthing for your own ship on top of the outstanding fees.”

Flawlessly, Obi-Wan replies, “I wouldn’t agree otherwise. I’m glad we could come to such a profitable arrangement. The ship?”

“This way.”

Jango’s ship, of course, is heavily armoured, shiny and full of ammunition that the Junker had been planning to sell along with the body. After a refuel and a shuffling of belongings – the Junker eyeing the _beskar’gam_ with mixed emotions, the presence of the armour solidifying Obi-Wan’s cover – Obi-Wan is lifts off, happy to have a few minutes to get used to the controls at ground-level before the local guild gives her the go-ahead to breach the atmosphere.

 _No wonder the Junker didn’t sell it straight away,_ she wonders at the ease of control. _This ship is worth its weight in credits._

Circling a moon at close to top speed, Obi-Wan’s thoughts drift back to Jango and his comm number. She has no excuse to procrastinate, now. If she intends to give Jango his ship and armour back, then she needs to find him. Anakin’s sharing of his comm number haunts her.

“I don’t want to,” she mutters, almost petulantly, staring at it. But eventually, she calls, typing it into the ship’s comm network. It takes several seconds for the comm to go through, the frequency ringing out into the depths of the Galaxy.

 _I shouldn’t call. He probably never wants to speak to me ever again._ Obi-Wan fruitlessly tries to purge herself of these feelings, but that involves immersing herself in them – which is not what she needs right now. They just get worse, up until the moment that Jango answers her call, a hologram of his upper half appearing.

“Jango.”

The guarded expression on his face remains for only a second more, a happy tilt to his lips appearing in its place. _“Ob’ika.”_

Obi-Wan swallows her laughter. Anakin had better never hear _that_ nickname. “I am presently aboard your ship.”

 _“I guessed that,”_ he says. _“Wasn’t sure who was comm-ing from my own vessel, but I’m happy it’s you. You went back?”_

“I did,” she replies lightly, reaching for the _buy’ce_ in the pilots chair. She lifts it into view of the holo-projector. “Are you perhaps familiar with this _beskar’gam,_ my dear? Recovering it took some effort, but I had a lightsabre to find.”

Jango is silent, staring at his bucket through the comm. Obi-Wan watches him, his reaction what she expected. He doesn’t know how to say thank-you – only nodding mutely to her.

“We are _aliit_ , as you say,” Obi-Wan says in a soft voice. Her grip on the helmet tightens. “I owed you this much.”

 _“Aliit do not owe each other things.”_ Jango speaks roughly, breathing heavily. _“Aliit means family. An’ika told me about your ‘holiday’ – what are you going to do?”_

“Visit you, for one,” she says promptly, “if only to give you back your belongings. I’ll have to make another trip back planetside to retrieve my own ship, after securing the credits to pay for both our berth fees.”

Jango swears, saying determinedly, _“Leave that to me, cyar’ika. I’m sending you coordinates. Meet me at them as soon as you can and bring everything. I want to see you.”_

“And I you. Not to mention, Anakin mentioned a son. Jast’ika.”

 _“Jaster Fett,”_ confirms the Mando’ad.

Obi-Wan relaxes at his words, his acceptance all she needs to chase away the intrusive thoughts. It isn’t a technique that can continue, not really, but Obi-Wan will use what is given to her. _I should speak to a mind healer,_ she thinks with somewhat of a sigh, a tension leaving her as she sits back in the pilot seat.

“I’ve missed you,” she admits.

Jango visibly swallows, a dark expression that screams _attachment_ flashing across his eyes. _“I’d be lying,”_ he says in a low, defensive growl, _“if I didn’t feel the same, Obi-Wan. I don’t have an aliit of my own- I didn’t, rather. Jast’ika was supposed to be it and he is…what happened to us means something to me that I can’t properly explain. You and your An’ika have burrowed in, Obi-Wan and I don’t care enough about your Jetii philosophy to let you go – either of you.”_

Heart pounding in her chest, her own attachment growing by the second, Obi-Wan struggles to come up with a refusal of his feelings that won’t hurt him. She’d be a hypocrite, either way.

Thankfully, Jango has more to say. _“I’ve been telling Jast’ika stories about you and his ori’vod, though he’s too little to understand. You coming to see me now is perfect.”_

“I have been instructed by Master Yoda to investigate my past, as a child of Stewjoni,” Obi-Wan tells him cautiously, not sure if he expects her to stay the whole year with him or not. That Master Yoda also told her to release her attachments is something she does not wish to face. “I am to learn myself better as a person and a Jedi.”

His eyebrow lifts. _“So, you’ve got to find yourself, then? Go a little hop-skip about the Galaxy, doing whatever you like? Sounds expensive.”_

“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan says wryly, “I should instead by calling it ‘paid leave’. To be a Jedi is as much a working profession as it is a lifestyle.”

Jango snorts in humour, stating, _“Come visit Jaster and I on ‘paid leave’, then. We can have another night to ourselves, before we part.”_

“I’ll hold you to that,” says Obi-Wan, fondly recollecting their evening together before things went to hell. “You’re a charming and, if I may say so, handsome man.”

 _“You may say so.”_ He smiles and she smiles back, enjoying the… _simplicity._ Obi-Wan wants to see him again. A faint warble echoes in the background of the holo-call and Jango moves automatically, the holo flickering as he shifts in and out of the frame. _“I have to go, mesh’la. I’ll send you those coordinates soon.”_

“Farewell, my dear.” Obi-Wan says, before he cuts the connection. She stares at the space where his holo had been, guessing that perhaps the noise was Jaster – and what a name. _Jaster Fett._ After weeks calling him Jast’ika in her head, it’s nice to have the full picture.

Holding Jango’s _buy’ce_ to her chest, Obi-Wan rubs a shiny patch on the head, kissing it lightly. She’ll clean the armour for Jango before arriving at wherever he wishes to meet her and watch his face light up at the sight of it. She thinks it’ll be the silent type of happiness, where his eyes light up or a warmth fills his face, even if his expression is unchanged.

 _Perhaps he will kiss my hand again,_ Obi-Wan thinks, closing her eyes at the thought of him repeating his behaviour from when she was in the Halls of Healing. It felt intimate, then and she has no doubt it will feel the same way again. That feeling filled her with comfort, the steadfast kind that you can trust. She wants to feel that again.

Obi-Wan can only hope.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my babies.
> 
> the ensuing ride will most likely kill my followers from the mixture of Softness, Feels, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Confirmed Smut and hilarious mix-ups from Obi-Wan's understanding of Mando'a. the Miscommunication Train is travelling hard and fast, guys.
> 
> good luck!!!

The coordinates Jango gives her lead Obi-Wan to a water biome planet that, on Jango’s ship nav, is called _Kamino._ It is vast and it is very, very _wet._ Obi-Wan lands the ship on a platform, led there by a blip that connects to the ship computer, guiding her to what must be a private berth of Jango’s and realises that she is about to get perfectly soaked.

 _I hope I do not have to leave so soon,_ she thinks, somewhat uncomfortable with the idea. Obi-Wan will do what she has to, but there’s no need for any unnecessary actions on her part.

As it is, her thick Jedi cloak is the only thing that becomes overly wet, the Force assisting her bounding strides into the above-water facility. Inside, a white, long-necked being with large eyes and a thin, bipedal body greets her, using the same accent as Jango.

“Greeting, Knight Kenobi – you are expected.” The being welcomes her, inclining their tall head and gesturing to the long corridor to their left, Obi-Wan’s right. “Jango Fett has requested you be given a tour of the facility, as the representative for Master Sifo-Dyas of the Jedi Order.”

“Master Sifo-Dyas?” Obi-Wan repeats, before concealing her confusion. “Oh, of course. My apologies – it was a long journey. You are…”

“Taun We,” the being introduces themselves – a female of her kind, Obi-Wan guesses, though she won’t say any assumption aloud. “I have been associated with Jango Fett for several years now. He seemed anxious to meet you, Knight Kenobi.”

“We are acquainted,” Obi-Wan says, asking cautiously, “And Jaster?”

“Mr Fett’s requested personal unit has come along nicely – a perfect specimen,” replies Taun We, setting off alarm bells in Obi-Wan’s mind.

_Specimen._

She knew that Jaster was a clone of some type, but the language Taun We uses isn’t right. _There were so many clones of Jango…_ she thinks furiously, pasting a smile on her face. _Jango, what are you trying to show me?_

Taun We shows her through the facility, where children and teenagers who all resemble Jango – the older ones more than the younger – are trained in batch, in both knowledge and martial combat. Obi-Wan feels sick to her stomach and she can’t help but ask Taun We an important question.

“If I may, what happens to the… _imperfect_ stock?”

“Flawed, defective and damaged stock are painlessly decommissioned,” Taun We replies, as if it is not a severe breach of Republic Cloning Laws. “Kamino _prides_ itself on our cloning techniques and as the biggest high-quality order Kamino has ever been given, we are working ourselves hard to create a worthy army for the Republic.”

 _Gods,_ Obi-Wan thinks, feeling like she’s going to be sick. _An army for the Republic – signed and paid for by a Jedi Master._ Nothing about this is right.

“There is a physical contract, of course?”

“Of course, Knight Kenobi.”

“I would appreciate a copy for perusal of the Council, if that’s quite alright.”

Taun We bows her head, “I will arrange for one to be delivered to your room with Mr Fett – Jango was _quite_ insistent that you share.”

“I was expecting _that,_ at least,” Obi-Wan remarks in a mutter. “How much more of the facility is there to be visited?”

The Kamino-native informs her that there is only one place left to visit, if she wishes it: the nursery. Obi-Wan tells Taun We she most definitely wants to visit the nursery and is immediately led to a room with a ceiling that, for Taun We, seems quite low compared the other vaulting rooms that Jango’s clones inhabited. A hundred cribs greet her, attended to by a pair of Kamino-natives and over a dozen droids.

Not sure of any protocol they have in place, Obi-Wan asks Taun We, “May I lift them from their cradles?”

Taun We inclines her head. “The neonatal units are property of the Jedi Order. They are yours to do as you please with.”

Happy, yet unsatisfied, Obi-Wan nods shortly and picks up the nearest child. He’s small and wriggly, with a thatch of dark brown hair and wide eyelids – beautiful, in other words. _This is what Jaster will look like, one day,_ she thinks, for they are clearly older than several weeks. Obi-Wan finds herself bringing the child closer to her body, cradling him close as she brushes her finger down his nose, soothing his more active wriggles.

“Hello,” she says, reaching out with the Force. His life-sign is small, yet powerful, as any living beings is. It tells Obi-Wan something important: this isn’t just a fleshy avatar. This is a being who will grow into a real person, with his own thoughts and feelings. It makes the vile practices of the Kamino-natives even worse.

But something else occurs to her and Obi-Wan closes her eyes abruptly, lowering her shields. The area is bright with life – filled with thousands of beings, clones and Kamino-natives alike. She even feels that strange echo of life in a few droids throughout the city, which she’s only familiar with due to Anakin’s mechanical genius.

“What do you do with the Force-sensitive clones?” Obi-Wan can’t help but ask, searching for those familiar _sparks_ out of the ordinary. She doesn’t want to think of what these cloners do to the ‘imperfect’ – for the word _decommissioned_ is sinister and outright upsetting, when faced with the prospect of those being killed as tiny Jaster’s.

Taun We is reluctant as she says, “They are not what was ordered.”

Her heart pounds. “They may be clones, but they are Force-sensitive,” Obi-Wan says insistently. She can only do so much with so little information. “Those that show even the slightest ability must be gathered and given to the Jedi Temple. They are ours, yes?”

“Indeed, but-”

“They will not be decommissioned,” Obi-Wan brooks no argument, settling the clone-child back in his crib so she can turn to face Taun We, her expression fierce and angry. “Master Sifo-Dyas was in error, omitting this most crucial fact. The Republic might need an army of clones, but the Jedi likewise needs Force-sensitives. If it is resources or credits that you require so you might outfit your own premises, I must insist you make up the detriment in your cloning process before requesting assistance from the Order.”

Taun We closes her eyes, bowing her head. “It will be done, Knight Kenobi. Arrangements should have been made with Master Sifo-Dyas for the Jedi’s preferred way of decommissioning and reassignment. I shall bring this issue to the Prime Minister immediately after guiding you to Mr Fett’s quarters. Is there anything else you which to address?”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan says, coming up with a solution on the spot; and try as she might, that _emotion_ she feels – that horror, that rebellious response to _injustice_ – comes out in her voice. “The unfit units will be categorised according to severity of impurity. Why waste them? You mentioned reassignment – an outer organisation can be made for the Republic, as support units outside of the battle troops. Public Relations, Senate Delegates, undercover agents. The Jedi do no abide by heedless death.”

“I shall speak to the Prime Minister,” Taun We repeats herself, bowing her head again. “I assure you that it is our mistake that Master Sifo-Dyas was not fully made aware of our processes. While your order may not be cancelled, as per our provisions, corrections to our current contract may be made. Is this to your liking, Knight Kenobi?”

“Yes, it is,” Obi-Wan says, barely holding back her anger. “If that is the tour finished, I would like to join Mr Fett, now.”

“Of course. Follow me.”

* * *

It’s not that Obi-Wan wants to rage at him. That would be indecorous – of a normal Human, let alone a Jedi. Instead, Obi-Wan looks at the problem logically.

Logically, cloning is banned in the Republic and Jango should have known better than to agree. ‘Considerable pay’, indeed. The Jedi would have discovered – or been informed of – the clone army eventually and Obi-Wan imagines there would have been an investigation of some kind. However, Jango is under no obligation to follow Republic Law – he said it himself that the only job he does _not_ take would have to involve either children or slaving. Being the genetic donor for a clone army is neither, though considering the cloners’ practices, Obi-Wan could argue for both.

Upon being escorted to Jango’s rooms, Taun We leaves her at the door, assuring her that Jango is inside. The Kamino-native is already walking away when Jango opens the door, a breathing bundle pressed to his shoulder. He look exhausted, but expectant all the same – most likely knowing exactly what he was throwing Obi-Wan into when he lied to the cloners.

“…good evening,” she greets from the corridor. The warmth they usually share does not reappear upon seeing him. Instead there is a gap – a coolness that Obi-Wan imagines that Jango felt the entire time he’s known her. He has been keeping secrets.

“Hello, Obi-Wan.”

“May I come in?”

Jango steps out of the way and Jaster takes the moment to make a burbling noise, sounding tired even in sleep. “I just got him down,” Jango says, as if to excuse his son. Obi-Wan nods silently, stepping past into the main quarters.

The room is sparse, all whites with the occasional black or silver, with shutters half-closed over transparisteel windows that look out onto the water and only dim lights to illuminate it. It isn’t the home she expected, or even a den – it’s a room to sleep in. There’s a little mess, made up of many Jaster-sized clothes and undergarments, but other than that, the place is…empty. Obi-Wan takes off her robe, not realising her hands are shaking until she’s draped the garment over a chair.

This was supposed to be a happy moment.

“There-” she starts, only to cut herself off. She wants to say _there is much to discuss,_ but it doesn’t feel right. None of this is right.

This was supposed to be a happy moment.

Jango ducks into a side-room, presumably putting Jaster down, for he returns without him. He sidles up to her, hand resting beside hers on her robe. He says, “A man by the name of Tyranus approached me, about three years ago, asking me to do this gig. I didn’t see a problem with it – still don’t, just to be clear.”

“I just had to begin renegotiations on a contract I didn’t even know existed,” Obi-Wan replies. Her eyes don’t stray from her shaking hands. “They ‘decommission’ imperfect clones. They kill children.”

“They’re clones-”

“They are _people,_ ” she spits, anger rising. Obi-Wan refuses to look at him, squeezing her eyes shut. She can’t help but see that child again, the clone she picked up and held, his life-force so small and _unique._ “Midi-chlorians can be counted, you know. They’re living organisms. The more you have, the more receptive to the Force you are. I don’t want to know how other so-called _defective, flawed or damaged_ children are counted, in the ideas of these beings, if something so simple as being Force-sensitive is ruled as a reason to murder innocents.”

Jango is silent.

Drawing away from him, Obi-Wan sits in the next-nearest chair, pressing her hands to her face. Processing what she’s seen today will take time – and she’s still going to have to meet with the Prime Minister of Kamino tomorrow, unless she wishes to contact the Council and request another negotiator. The precious few she knows that would be capable of facing such horror with a blank face are either Council members or inactive outside of the Temple itself.

Her shields are still down, she realises belatedly. Obi-Wan brings them up again slowly, so as to not shock herself into further silence, pausing only when she feels Jango’s hands on her shoulders, sliding down to grasp her from behind in an embrace. Obi-Wan can’t begin to know how he feels – is this his regret or simply his way to assuage her?

“Jango,” she starts, swallowing deeply. Part of her wants to say _let go of me_ , but the other part of her is labelling him as the only safe thing on the planet. Kamino is a haven of the unethical and immoral – and Jango has at least some of those in spades. Some. That key word is- is just not enough.

For part of her.

Obi-Wan gives in, reaching to pull his arms tighter around her. His embrace becomes heavier – grounding – until he lets go and draws her up from her chair. They face each other without words and he raises her wrist, kissing it without protest.

 _“Aliit,”_ he says, like it’s a rule.

“Does this not count?” Obi-Wan asks, referring to the clones; but her question is not meant to be answered. Jango leads her to a bunk in the wall, pulling the covers back with one hand, the other gripped tightly in her own. He doesn’t let go, not until he moves to take off his shirt.

Jango says to her, “Let’s just sleep,” before inviting her into bed with a tilt of his head. Obi-Wan nods, turning away so she can strip off her clothes. Her robe is already off and next come her belts, tabard, boots and outer tunic, leaving her in a thin undertunic that wraps around like a jacket and trousers. At that point, Obi-Wan looks back at Jango, who has already climbed into bed, wearing only his trousers.

 _No more,_ she decides, clambering in after him. She considers taking off her chest binder, but decides on simply undoing the tighter strap over the top instead, hand ducking into her neckline to undo it. The release isn’t full, but there’s certainly less pressure afterwards, which Vokara would still undoubtedly criticise her for – binders aren’t supposed to be worn all the time, lest body disfigurement occur.

Jango welcomes her when she follows and Obi-Wan finds herself laying her head on his bare chest, fingers entwining with his on his stomach. She can hear his familiar heartbeat – the metronome she used what seems like an age ago, when she opened her shields in the Syndicate warehouse. It lulls her into a peaceful doze, but the unfamiliarity of her surroundings doesn’t let her fully sink into slumber.

And perhaps that’s a good thing – for as soon as Jaster seems to enter deep sleep, a noise comes from Jaster’s room. Immediately, he becomes alive, attempting to get up to see to his son. His movements are so jagged and lagging that Obi-Wan takes pity on him, pressing her hand to his chest to stop him.

“I’ll see to him,” she volunteers in a whisper, Jango halting in his movements. Untangling her legs from the sheet, Obi-Wan keeps her hand pressed to his chest, keeping him laid down on the bed; he’s still wide awake, listening to Jaster cry out, but he watches her go without defending himself. A sign of trust, maybe – but Obi-Wan fails to continue that line of thought, turning her concentration on the baby in the other room.

The door is open. When she enters, the first thing she sees is a depersonalised crib, a plastoid container just like the other clone children laid in. Similarly, the baby inside has a tuft of brown hair and the same features, only smaller and more pressed together on a tinier head. He mewls for attention and Obi-Wan lifts him up, reaching out with the Force to ascertain his needs, as she would for an injured animal.

“Oh, you’re hungry,” she murmurs, searching for food. A small bottle nearby offers an answer, blue milk leaking from the teat when she checks the contents. Humming happily, Obi-Wan settles on the nearby bunk – larger than the one in the main quarters – and pressing him close to her. It feels different than with the other clone child, with half her layers. She can feel the heat of him against her skin and something in her… _wants._ Yearns.

Movement at the door makes her look up. Jango is there, halfway visible as he watches her. Obi-Wan wordlessly shuffles over, further into the bunk so that he might join her. He does, swiftly, bringing with him the covers from the other bed and taking no time at all to cosy up to them both, arm wrapping around her shoulders. Obi-Wan naturally leans into the crook of his arm, Jaster still suckling away at his bottle.

Domestic bliss. This is what normal people get all the time, all throughout the Galaxy.

Spare hand rising, Obi-Wan strokes Jaster’s hair, feeling a pulse beneath his skin – his brain, if she knows her Human biology right. She disguises her shiver at the idea, though Jaster still draws her closer, as if to ward off the cold. Not that the quarters aren’t warm enough. Jaster must be from a warm planet.

“…I like this,” he eventually mutters. “Us.”

“I concur,” Obi-Wan agrees, even though it goes against her nature. This is not something that Jedi do…not outside the Crèches at least. An idle thought occurs to her that she could become a Crèchemaster, but she discards it; she’s young and charismatic, with the slaying of a Sith under her belt – not to mention the incident with the Syndicate. The Jedi have been getting more press over her antics than they have for half a century. It’s attention they sorely need, in her opinion, what with public opinion being so low. That they couldn’t just take Anakin from his master – and his mother, for that matter – without having to go through the laborious and illegal process of buying him says much over how the Republic has been corralling the Jedi.

Obi-Wan can only hope that Quinlan’s request for a Great Searching gets approved and underway soon, so that all Anakin’s can be found and given the opportunity to join the Jedi.

Jaster finishes feeding and Jango helpfully takes the empty receptacle from her, leaving Jaster in her arms. Obi-Wan doesn’t mind, slumping down almost flat on the bed so that Jaster can lie between them. She has an inkling that it might be somewhat safer to put Jaster in his own bed, but for now, she’s happy to just hold him.

_“Gar mesh’la buir.”_

A faint protest stirs in her, but Obi-Wan beats it down, not wanting to ruin the moment. Instead, she just avoids looking at Jango when he says that she’s a beautiful parent, pressing her forehead to Jast’ika’s instead, in a facsimile of a kiss she’s seen in other cultures. It lets her look at his face in the dim light and pour her heart out in one look.

Jango dozes upright for a while, getting some light sleep before waking again, transferring Jaster to his crib. Obi-Wan waits until he gets back into bed before wrapping her arms around him, drawing Jango as close as she held his son.

The only thing missing is Anakin, Obi-Wan long used to her padawan sneaking into her room at night to curl up with her. She’s never complained – not since he told her he missed his mother. Faintly, she wonders how he’s doing, all alone at the Temple with only Master Yoda for company. It’s not like he has a clan to fall back on, if he wanted to sleep in piles like everyone used to, as children. Obi-Wan was more surprised that her clan members never snuck in to lie down with her when she was having her visions than she was when she discovered Jango had left.

Sleep takes her and it is deep. When she wakes the next morning, it is to the sound of Jaster talking in Mando’a to Jaster, voice light and almost buoyant. In the shadow of the bunk, Obi-Wan opens her eyes to watch Jango bathe his son methodically, using a sponge and towel to clean his tan skin. When she moves into a more comfortable position, Jango nods in greeting, Obi-Wan content to encourage their silent communication; she’s not had a chance to use such a peaceful way of communicating with another since Qui-Gon passed.

“Taun We left a message,” Jango eventually says, reminding her of the world outside their bubble. “The contract between the Kaminoans and the Jedi Order will be re-negotiated in two days, but unofficial discussions so you can understand the current system begin tomorrow.”

“Right,” Obi-Wan acknowledges tiredly, nodding along. Sitting up, she stretches lightly, quickly realising that the bunk is too small for her morning ablations. “I’ll be in the main living area,” she pronounces, getting up.

“Alright,” he says and that is that, it seems.

Obi-Wan goes through some stretches first, waking up properly and making herself a tea from Jango’s stores. The automated processor makes a better homebrew than she does, though, which makes her grumble for a short while before she sits down on the floor and drinks, beginning her meditations.

Jango pads around for a bit while she goes through the usual motions, settled at the table with Jast’ika by the time she’s gotten to the last part of her routine – checking and adjusting her shields, as needed. Once completed, her tea finished, Obi-Wan stands and goes through her katas, aware of Jango’s keen eye on her the entire time.

“Form Three,” she answers his unasked question. “Soresu. It is a lightsabre technique, specialising in ultimate defence. I am currently attempting to master it, as I have mastered Ataru, otherwise known as Form Four. It’s a more…agile set of manoeuvres. Aggressive.”

“Aren’t you afraid I might use this for my own benefit?” Jango queries, more intelligently than warily. Sliding into another kata, Obi-Wan considers it.

“In truth…yes. But I am far from a professional in Soresu, though I have come far in the last year I have been dedicating myself to its practice,” Obi-Wan tells him, “I would be more wary showing you Ataru, as it is a prominently offensive series of tactics. Finding gaps in Ataru when given the opportunity would be easy for those learned in combat, such as yourself.”

“Defences can crumble.”

“Not Soresu,” Obi-Wan disagrees. “A master of Soresu can hold off dozens of attacks without pause, from a hundred different angles.”

Jango hums lowly, “But you are no Soresu master.”

“No.”

“I could find your weakness.”

“But would you ever use it?” Obi-Wan challenges, passing through what she decides will be her final kata of the day. Her question is deeper than it seems: she asks if Jango would ever betray her. Their eyes lock and her query remains unanswered.

It does not change her opinion of him in the slightest.

* * *

“You’ll be busy tomorrow,” Jango says into her hair, pressed up against her back. Obi-Wan can feel his body, all hard muscle and weathered hands that clasp her hips. “Jaster is staying with the long-necks. He’ll be gone until tomorrow morning.”

“Will he, now?” She had wondered. A grin sprouts on her face and she subtly changes her posture, lip quirking at the hardness at her back. “I do believe-” she pushes back obviously, craning her neck to look at him “-that we said something about making time.”

“I made time,” Jango says, stating the obvious as he smirks. His grasp on her hips becomes tight and Obi-Wan stretches up to kiss him. His lips are soft, but his mouth is wet and hot. Jango holds on tighter and then, she is spun around, pressed up against the counter. The empty plates from their evening meal make noises as they’re pushed across the surface, but neither being care a jot.

“Bed,” Obi-Wan orders, unduly pleased when Jango simply drags her to the bunk in the main living area – there’s something to be said about keeping the larger bunk for them and Jaster a more sacred space and more about Jango’s determination to fuck her, now that they have the choice.

Clothes are lost. Lips and teeth scrape and suck at skin. When both of them are gloriously naked, Obi-Wan twists their bodies so that Jango is beneath her, excitement thrumming through her veins. A laugh escapes her.

“Am I funny, now?” Jango asks, thumb passing over her nipple. Obi-Wan leans down, almost whispering.

“We get to do what we like. Whatever the hell we like. I’d very much like it if you, for example, fucked me absolutely silly.”

“Your wish is my command, provided I top,” he says in a smooth tone, yet Obi-Wan is unimpressed. Something about the idea doesn’t sit well with her. Nevertheless, _she’s_ the one asking, so they switch positions again in a bustle of arms and legs. She holds his face in her hands, tracing his jaw.

Behind her, she hears a lewd jeer.

Startling, Obi-Wan blinks rapidly and wonders where the noise came from. She’s on her back – how could she hear something behind her? Jango catches the change in her expression, brow furrowing.

_“Mesh’la?”_

“…nothing,” Obi-Wan shakes her head, passing it off as her imagination. She kisses him sweetly, closing her eyes. The noise doesn’t repeat itself and she relaxes, holding him close as he presses into her, grunting in pleasure. Feeling it herself, Obi-Wan wriggles a little, lifting her hips off the bed and groaning loudly as Jango _moves._

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Jango repeats himself, saying _“Mesh’la”_ over and over, interspersed with her name and the word _cyar’ika,_ Mando’a for darling. Obi-Wan clings to him, rocking into his rough jerks – only to hear the word _BITCH_ lash through her mind, paralyzing her. Suddenly, she’s back there on the stage and she can almost feel the collar around her neck, cool wind chilling her shoulders.

“Stop!” Obi-Wan cries out, Jango moving off-rhythm as she grasps feebly at his skin, terror the only thing left. He slips out of her, hand rising to cup her face in an instant.

“Obi-Wan?”

She sucks in a sharp breath, not understanding what’s going on. Her hands are shaking again and she feels _cold._ Jango becomes more and more alarmed as the seconds go by, sitting up and dragging her with him, hauling a corner of the sheet around her shoulders.

 _“Mesh’la_ , speak to me. I need you to speak,” he instructs, apprehension clear. Obi-Wan can’t get the sensations out of her mind, remembering the _stage…_ Then Jango bundles her into his lap, sitting in the corner of the bunk. “You’re here with me,” he says, disjointed, “We were doing what we wanted to.”

Shaking, Obi-Wan barely manages to say, “Sorry.”

Jango is quiet for a moment. “Nothing to be sorry about,” he eventually says, holding her tighter. His arms feel safe – Jango means _safety._ “I’m not going to let them hurt you again.”

“I know,” she murmurs, but Obi-Wan still has to squeeze her eyes shut, burrowing her teary face in his chest. The familiar thud of his heartbeat keeps her steady as she reaches inside. The negative emotions strangle the good and it takes a good few tries before she can let any of it go – the darkness rising in her like a beast, trying to scare her into submission.

 _I am safe,_ Obi-Wan assures herself, resting in that feeling. _I am not in the custody of the Syndicate. I control me._ The words are truth and the truth solidifies her confidence that it’s _true._ The snarling darkness is disentangled from her mind, piece by piece and when each of those pieces fade, she feels a little lighter.

Obi-Wan moves from the sanctity of Jango’s arms, aware of his hyper-vigilance as she settles over his legs, straddling him. His face is like stone – his eyes locked on her, unblinking.

“I am better,” she tells him. “I was…not expecting my own reaction, though certain things preceded it that I did not consider as the warnings signs they were.”

“Warning signs?” Jango repeats, his tone telling all.

Obi-Wan cups his cheek. “Nothing you did,” she says, inferring that he’s suspicious of himself. “I assure you of that. Products of my own mind that I ignored are the signs I speak of. I will not ignore it again, if it happens another time.”

That suspicious remains as Jango looks her up and down, “I don’t think we should do that again.”

“I refuse to give up sex because of one bad experience.”

“Three bad experiences,” the Mando’ad corrects, arm curling halfway around her back protectively. Obi-Wan once again marvels at how such awful events connect them both so strongly. “Twice there, once now.”

“It’s trauma,” she says baldly, “and frankly, I should have taken up Healer Che’s suggestion to see a mind healer. And I will, throughout my ‘holiday’.”

“Paid leave,” he jokes, ever so faintly. A small amount of happiness returns to her at his words and Ob-Wan nods.

“Of course. Paid leave. How silly of me.”

“Yeah,” Jango continues, grasping her hand so he can kiss her wrist again. It’s a comforting motion. He asks her with a penetrating gaze, “You’re sure things are good now, _cyar’ika?”_

 _“Elek,”_ she murmurs a Mando’a affirmative, adding something she used to say to Satine. _“Ner riduur.”_

Jango’s face unexpectedly burns, as he hurriedly asks her, “Do you know what that means?”

“I do,” Obi-Wan says in a wry voice, “Though if you’d rather I’d not, I don’t mind. I used to say it to Duchess Satine Kryze, though that fell through rather spectacularly.”

An outraged splutter escapes him, his words meaningless as his mouth opens and closes, staring at her. Eventually, he questions with a strained voice, “You used to call Satine Kryze your _riduur?”_

“I did. She suggested it and I agreed that it was fitting, while we were together,” Obi-Wan informs him, guessing his reaction stems from the fact that Duchess Satine Kryze sits in his rightful place as the Mand’alor. Calling ones beloved their ‘partner’ did always make her feel like they were equals.

“And how long was that?”

“Oh…six months, give or take.”

In an instant, Jango has reached up to hook his hand around her neck. He draws her closer, their breaths mingling as he says, “Ridiculous _jetii_ ,” before kissing her. Obi-Wan thinks it’s the best one yet.

But when they part, he says with a more serious tone, “Not yet. I don’t know about Kryze, but I’d rather wait until our relationship is… _certain,_ before bringing the word _riduur_ into it.”

“Alright,” Obi-Wan agrees, unsure as to whether it’s a personal difference between the two or if she’s not knowledgeable enough in her understanding of Mando’a. Pressing a shorter kiss to his lips, Obi-Wan sighs happily, a particular feeling rising in her belly that she hopes Jango will be able to sate. “Now, can we return to our previous occupation? I think I’d prefer it the way we’re already positioned-”

Jango barks out a laugh, interrupting her. “Demanding Ob’ika. _Ner mesh’la cyar’ika.”_

“I rather like it when you call me that,” Obi-Wan says, kissing him again. Things progress without interruption, this time and when Jango chokes out her name in a strangled yell, both of them are left satisfied – and not once does Obi-Wan think of the past.

**Author's Note:**

> look up the translation for 'riduur'. i dare you. i frickin DARE you.
> 
> obi-wan is not wrong.
> 
> obi-wan is also oblivious as all hell and doesn't look further into anything when someone she trusts tells her something.


End file.
